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PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. 



A STUDY. 



JULIA DUHRING. 



I like the study of men and women better than grass and trees.— 
Sydney Smith. 

Let us treat men and women well : treat them as if they were real 
perhaps they are. — Emerson. 




PHILADELPHIA : A 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 

1874. 






Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO., 
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 



TO 
THE MEMORY OF MY FATHER, 

HENRY DUHRING, 

WHOSE NOBLE INTEGRITY AND ONENESS OF PURPOSE THROUGHOUT 

HIS CAREER SECURED TO ME THE RICHEST BLESSINGS OF 

LIFE, AND WHOSE PERSONAL CHARACTER IS AN 

IMPERISHABLE INHERITANCE, 

THESE PAGES 

ARE AFFECTIONATELY AND REVERENTLY 

DEDICATED. 



PREFACE. 



Believing that the study of Man is the most 
ennobling and satisfying of all human pursuits, it is 
natural that I should desire to lead others to the 
same conclusion. 

My aim then, dear reader, is not to enlighten — 
still less to bore you with moral truisms or platitudes 
— but simply to ask you to examine with me those 
earnest questions upon a solution of which so large a 
portion of happiness and misery depends. 

In this spirit I present the volume, remarking 
merely that were it withheld until personal judgment 
pronounced it finished, it would probably never appear. 

To my brother, Dr. Louis A. Duhring, I must ac- 
knowledge the encouragement so generously given, 
without which — it is not too much to say — the task 
would hardly have been either undertaken or com- 
pleted. 

J. D. 

Philadelphia, April, 1874. 



CONTENTS. 



I. — Philosophers and Fools 
II. — Finding our Level . 
III. — Chief among Realities 
IV. — Voice and Language 
V. — Who are Wicked? . 
VI. — Greater than Sceptres 
VII. — Man and Woman 
VIII. — Antagonistic People 
IX. — Romance versus Criticism 



9 
38 
64 
no 
142 
174 
250 
279 
3 2 9 



X- 

PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. 



Men go their roads, foolish or wise. — Carlyle. 

My friend, you make very free with your days: pray, how many do 
you expect to have ? — De Quincey. 



In one of those exquisitely satirical effusions of 
Douglas Jerrold called Punch's Letters to his Son, 
we find the following : 

" My Dear Boy : — I am much pleased with your 
last letter. Your remarks on the copies set you by 
your excellent master, Dr. Birchbud, convince me 
that schooling has not been lost upon you. 

" However, beware lest you look too closely into 
the signification and meaning of words. This is an 
unprofitable custom, and has spoilt the fortunes of 
many a man. You may have observed a team of 
horses yoked to a heavy waggon ; may have heard 
the bells hanging about their head-gear tinkle, tinkle, 
tinkle. The bells are of no use — none, save to keep 
up a monotonous jingle; although, doubtless, Giles 
the waggoner will assure you that the music cheers 
the horses on the dusty road, and, under the burning 
sun, makes them pull blithely and all together. Now 
there is a certain lot of sentences in use among men, 

2 9 



IO PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. 

precisely like these bells. They mean nothing — are 
not intended to mean anything — but custom requires 
the jingle. Thus, when you meet a man whom you 
have seen, perhaps, thrice before — and he declares 
that ' he is delighted to see you/ albeit it would give 
him no concern whatever if you were decorating the 
next gibbet — you must not, for a moment, look a 
doubt of his joy, but take his raptures as a thing of 
course. If he squeeze your hand until your knuckles 
crack — squeeze again. If he declare that 'you're 
looking the picture of health,' asseverate upon your 
honor that ' he has the advantage of you, for you 
never saw him looking better.' He may at the time 
be in the last stage of a consumption — you may have a 
hectic fever in your cheek; no matter for that; you 
have both jingled your bells and with lightened con- 
sciences may take your separate ways. 

"I could, my dear child, enlarge upon this subject. 
It is enough that I caution you in your intercourse 
with the world, not to take words as so much genu- 
ine coin of standard metal, but merely as counters 
that people play with. If you estimate them at any 
thing above this, you will be in the hapless condition 
of the wretch who takes so many gilt pocket-pieces 
for real mint-guineas ; contempt and beggary will be 
your portion." 

Very much in the same manner do we hear the 
words philosopher and fool bandied about in the 
world; in fact, so misused and misinterpreted are 
they, that few of us have any clear idea as to the 
kind of people they represent. 

What is a philosopher? What is a fool? Ques- 
tions full of import to all who think of men and 



PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. II 

women as something more than machines set up in 
special places to do certain work, and to be examined 
with interest only when through some unlucky acci- 
dent they are not in good running order. 

Are philosophers a class of men who, through 
presumably elevated studies and extended researches 
into the mysteries of creation, are so far above the 
rest of the world that they can by no possible agree- 
ment live with them upon terms of equality? Or a 
class who, according to the puerile, half-formed con- 
ceptions of one portion of the community, neglect the 
decencies and civilities of life and scorn the things 
other men seek and enjoy ? Or how far is Ruskin 
right when he says : " I believe that metaphysicians 
and philosophers are, on the whole, the greatest 
troubles the world has to deal with ; and that while 
a tyrant or bad man is of some use in teaching people 
submission or indignation, and a thoroughly idle man 
is only harmful in setting an idle example, and com- 
municating to other lazy people his own lazy mis- 
understandings, busy metaphysicians are always en- 
tangling good and active people, and weaving cobwebs 
among the finest wheels of the world's business; and 
are as much as possible, by all prudent persons, to 
be brushed out of their way, like spiders, and the 
meshed weed that has got into the Cambridgeshire 
canals, and other such impediments to barges and 
business." 

Knowing well how impossible it is to judge of any 
man's mind or feelings by one act or one sentence, 
we cannot forget that Ruskin himself takes care to 
qualify the above by a note stating : " Observe, I do 
not speak thus of metaphysics because I have no 



12 PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. 

pleasure in them. When I speak contemptuously of 
philology, it may be answered me that I am a bad 
scholar; but I cannot be so answered touching meta- 
physics, for every one conversant with such subjects 
may see that I have strong inclination that way, which 
would, indeed, have led me far astray long ago, if I had 
not learned also some use of my hands, eyes, and feet." 
In both these assertions there is much to awaken 
reflection ; for we can scarcely fail to see that from 
a practical, material stand-point, metaphysicians and 
philosophers, represented by such names as Socra- 
tes, Plato, Descartes, Spinoza, Berkeley, Kant, Fichte, 
Comte, and others, are really " the greatest troubles 
the world has to deal with;" and in the second asser- 
tion we see how utterly useless it is for any man to 
disavow or try to eradicate the natural tendencies of his 
mind, a wise provision which insures the perpetuity 
of thought, beauty, and utility, combined with that 
endless variety in the human organization which adds 
so infinite a charm to existence. If philosophers are 
people who believe the use and culture of the intel- 
lect the worthiest pursuit for man, it is no wonder 
the world finds them troublesome. Do we not all 
regard people given to abstraction, meditation, specu- 
lation, revery, and imagination, as more or less un- 
fitted for every-day life and likely to interfere sadly 
with material comfort ? In choosing a working-man, 
we naturally prefer the practical one who takes a 
special, undivided interest in the thing he does, and 
instinctively avoid the one who even appears to take 
an interest in things apart from his trade. Philoso- 
phers, however, have their place no less than practical 
men, and what we chiefly need is to study their char- 



PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. 



13 



acteristics and discover what — in the truest sense — 
they represent and what they do. 

What are, strictly speaking, called philosophical or 
metaphysical studies possess a strong and subtle 
fascination for some minds, and, if honestly pursued, 
may bring profitable results ; but that these branches 
of learning are essential to the formation of a philoso- 
pher — a wisdom-loving man — does not seem entirely 
clear. " I have often been told," says Ruskin, " that 
any one who will read Kant, Strauss, and the rest of 
the German metaphysicians and divines, resolutely 
through, and give his whole strength to the study 
of them, will, after ten or twelve years' labor, discover 
that there is very little harm in them ; and this I can 
well believe ; but I believe also that the ten or twelve 
years may be better spent ; and that any man who 
honestly wants philosophy not for show, but for use, 
and knowing the Proverbs of Solomon, can, by way 
of Commentary, afford to buy, in convenient editions, 
Plato, Bacon, Wordsworth, Carlyle, and Helps, will 
find that he has got as much as will be sufficient for 
him and his household during life, and of as good 
quality as need be." Who, among the best minds 
of an age, cares what a man is by name, profession, or 
nationality, provided he have, in some form or other, 
evinced the noble manhood which scorns effeminacy 
and folly, and resolutely accomplishes a good work ? 
All men cannot be natural philosophers, metaphy- 
sicians, or theologians — nor is there any cause for 
discontent in this restriction, seeing that we could 
ill spare our poets, artists, and musicians — but all men 
can love wisdom and bend themselves to its require- 
ments. 

2* 



I4 PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. 

In a broad sense, the term people might be said 
to signify two classes, called philosophers and fools ; 
and although the divisions and subdivisions are 
countless, their distinctive characteristics remain the 
same. They are of both sexes, of all ages ; diametri- 
cally opposed to each other in system of thought, 
feeling and action ; eternally sworn to counteract each 
other's work ; and yet they have, from time immemo- 
rial, flourished side by side, and to all appearance will 
continue so to flourish to the end of time. The fools, 
it cannot be denied, have always greatly preponderated, 
and if we may read the future in the past, the world 
will, probably, always be thus overstocked ; neverthe- 
less, as weight of brain usually decides any contest 
in which human progression is at stake, the world 
cannot be said to suffer materially from that unpleas- 
ant preponderance. War, conflagration, pestilence, 
or any other extraordinary occurrence, shows us of 
what men are capable when roused : the philoso- 
pher is in this roused state throughout life, like other 
men only when taking the repose absolutely needed for 
recuperation. He regards work, not as the bane of 
existence, to be complied with simply as a means of 
securing comfort, luxury, or position, but as the in- 
dispensable condition of health, tranquillity of mind, 
and happiness. He does not, however, work to ex- 
cess, goading himself to a frenzy or stupidity from 
which there is no issue save misery; nor does he 
undertake tasks for which he is naturally unfitted, 
thus crushing out individuality and admitting incura- 
ble discontent. But having chosen his work, he is 
convinced the world can offer him nothing better; and 
that life, for him, means doing that and no other thing. 



PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. 1 5 

Pleasure he values not as a mode 'of " killing time" 
and exhausting vitality, but as a relaxation given by 
nature conformably to organization and to be par- 
taken of as freely as the air we breathe. How this 
boon comes to others he cannot tell, but to himself 
he knows it is one which cannot be measured, timed, 
or calculated. Earth, air, sky, and above all, humanity, 
bring it to him in abundance ; and the only drawback 
to complete satisfaction is the knowledge that others 
around him do not know the true source of this great 
good they seek. 

If the mind be in a receptive mood, a single flower, 
a fleeting cloud, a word or a smile, may bring the 
unalloyed pleasure which weeks of preparation often 
fail to procure. Wholly indescribable in language, 
always relative in nature, it is one of those curious 
realities which seem too closely allied to imagination 
to admit of direct analysis or explanation. 

Knowing that human happiness depends quite as 
much upon physical health as upon mental enlighten- 
ment, the philosopher studies the laws and conditions 
which produce it, and what he himself discovers, he 
strives to impart to others. Not by direct teaching how- 
ever ; for to the majority of men and women, hotly en- 
gaged as they are in the struggle for existence, physics 
are as unknown as ethics and esthetics. To them the 
structure of the human frame is as profound a mystery 
as — and, strange to say, far less interesting than — 
Heaven itself, and to tell them that pure air and proper 
food will do more towards elevating their minds than 
countless devotional exercises, would be wholly un- 
availing. Positive fact, conclusive argument, poetic 
sentiment, and earnest feeling are each and all wasted 



1 6 PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. 

if thrown before unappreciative minds. How many, 
indeed, among the intellectual minority in the world, 
are fully persuaded that the dividing line between the 
material and the spiritual nature of man has never yet 
been discovered ? That the clearest deductions of 
reason, the finest poetic fancies, and the sublimest 
flights of imagination depend mainly upon the care 
taken of the body? From the startling confessions 
of gastronomic culprits, the philosopher learns that 
more intellects have been dulled, more hearts de- 
praved, more promising careers marred by that form 
of intemperance than by any of the so-deemed greater 
vices. But, knowing the power of habit, that insidious 
parasite which grows over, around, and above the real 
self, thickly covering fair natural traits and crushing 
the noble possibilities which by right belong to them, 
he is not surprised that men and women generally are 
reaping a plentiful harvest of sloth and stupidity from 
their daily feasting. True, he himself may, through 
constitution, be liable to occasional excesses ; but he 
yields under protest, fully aware that the penalty will 
be, not only physical and mental injury, but that other 
which Horace Walpole describes as " my own scolding 
of myself — a correction I stand in great awe of, and 
which I am sure never to escape as often as I am to 
blame. One can scold other people again, or smile, 
or jog one's foot and affect not to mind it ; but those 
airs won't do with one's self; one always comes by the 
worst in a dispute with one's own conviction." More- 
over, when he commits an excess he regards his fall 
not as a trivial offence easily atoned for, but as a wan- 
ton debauch for which there is no excuse and the effects 
of which will be permanently felt. Judging then from 



PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. 



17 



irrefutable facts, he regards fasting — as opposed to 
feasting and in the sense of controlling natural appe- 
tites — as a truth in physical science, reverences it as 
a doctrine of ethical faith, and endeavors to make his 
own practice conform to theory. He knows that 
brain-work which under fasting can be easily and well 
done, under feasting becomes a grievous task and 
bears the mark of a bungler; moreover, that under 
the latter regime, the moral aids suggested by reason, 
even if multiplied indefinitely, will prove wholly in- 
effectual in preserving men from temptation ; that 
greater issues than church or law dreams of hang 
upon the simple acts of eating and drinking, the first 
being a far more'frequent cause of intemperance than 
the second, in a sensitive organization destroying 
thought, impulse, and aspiration, and exciting a crav- 
ing for ignoble things ; that while the danger of this 
indulgence lies in its extreme subtlety as well as in 
the countenance received from educated and religious 
people, it produces a more marked degeneration of 
character than any other human weakness. He per- 
ceives, too, that if people of good natural parts, living 
amid influences favorable to self-control, do, through 
such indulgence, fall into lamentable moral delinquen- 
cies, it is easy to understand how people of inferior 
parts, living amid influences favorable to self-abandon- 
ment, may, after similar indulgence, commit deeds of 
villainy ; that if excess means a greater supply than 
is needed for any given purpose, all superfluous food 
should come under that definition, the degree varying 
according to the physique or moral estimate of the 
individual. Horace Walpole writes to his friend John 
Chute: " I have such lamentable proofs every day 



1 8 PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. 

before my eyes of the stupefying qualities of beef, 
ale, and wine, that I have contracted a most re- 
ligious veneration for your spiritual nouriture. Only 
imagine that I here every day see men, who are 
mountains of roast beef and only seem just roughly 
hewn out into the outlines of human form, like the 
giant-rock at Pratolino ! I shudder when I see them 
brandish their knives in act to carve, and look on 
them as savages that devour one another. I should 
not stare at all more than I do, if yonder Alderman at 
the lower end of the table was to stick his fork into 
his neighbour's jolly cheek, and cut a brave slice of 
brawn and fat. Why, I'll swear I see no difference 
between a country gentleman and a sirloin ; whenever 
the first laughs, or the latter is cut, there run out just 
the same streams of gravy ! Indeed, the sirloin does 
not ask quite so many questions. I have an Aunt 
here, a family piece of goods, an old remnant of in- 
quisitive hospitality and economy, who, to all intents 
and purposes, is as beefy as her neighbours. She wore 
me so down yesterday with interrogatories, that I 
dreamt all night she was at my ear with ' who's' and 
1 why's', and ' when's' and ' where's', till at last in my 
very sleep I cried out, ' For God in heaven's sake, 
Madam, ask me no more questions!' " 

Between the extremes of feasting and fasting, the 
philosopher observes multitudinous grades of injury to 
body and mind from improper diet, each and all verify- 
ing scientific facts. He believes in the words of Prof. 
Youmans, that "to high and sustained mental power, 
ample lungs and a vigorous heart are essential. And 
these organs again fall back upon the digestive appa- 
ratus, which, if feeble, may impair the capacity of a 



PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. 19 

good heart, sound lungs, and a well-constituted brain. 
Digestion, and even the caprice of appetite, thus stand 
in direct dynamic relation to intellectual results. If the 
poisonous products of bodily waste are not constantly 
swept from the system, the cerebral changes are dis- 
turbed and the mind becomes stupefied. Foods, drinks, 
and drugs affect specifically the appetites, passions, and 
thoughts. Those fluctuations of feeling with which 
all are more or less familiar, the alternations of hope 
and despondency, are vitally connected with organic 
states. In high health the outlook is confident ; but 
with a low or disturbed circulation, thin morbid blood 
and bodily exhaustion, there is depression of spirits, 
gloom, inaction, paralysis of will and weariness of 
life." 

The philosopher is by no means exempt from phys- 
ical ills, but he suffers intelligently, not doggedly; he 
perceives the cause, discovers how far he personally 
is tb blame, and by what means a repetition of the 
suffering may be avoided. As regards sickness beheld 
in others, circumstances decide how it shall affect him, 
and his sympathy for such suffering is determined less 
by the special case than by the character of the suf- 
ferer. Even the most tender-hearted person must 
eventually grow callous if he see downright reckless- 
ness or neglect with regard to natural laws of health. 
In cases of ignorance, due allowance is made and 
harsh judgment withheld; but where this is not the 
palliation, and he beholds full-grown, intelligent men 
or women deliberately choosing to poison their sys- 
tems by all manner of intemperance, it is impossible 
for him to respect, and difficult to tolerate, such weak 
specimens of humanity. When sickness comes from 



20 PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. 

the source called fate or providence, in a word when 
unavoidable, his sympathies are deep and exhaustless; 
but when clearly the result of perverse conduct, when 
neither entreaty nor remonstrance will induce the 
subject to submit to proper treatment, his sensibilities 
gradually wax cold or give place to indignation. 

Firmly convinced that for people generally, peace, 
morality, and happiness depend mainly upon physical 
soundness, he refuses to apply the name materialism 
to that upon which all the finest sensibilities of the 
soul depend, and agrees fully with Brillat-Savarin 
when he says: "les animaux se repaissent; l'homme 
mange ; l'homme d'esprit seul sait manger. La des- 
tinee des nations depend de la maniere dont elles se 
nourrissent." 

The philosopher discovers, too, that there is an in- 
temperance of sleep as well as of food, and does not 
rest until a definite conclusion as regards himself and 
those under his care has been reached. To know 
what should be the effect of sleep upon every human 
being, he observes the freshness and happiness of well- 
cared-for children upon awaking, and how quickly the 
equilibrium is disturbed if the regular amount be less- 
ened or increased. Those who have closely studied 
this interesting phenomenon, all agree in declaring 
that one hour's excess will mar an entire day, as regards 
mood and ability to work. The elasticity of mind, the 
happy feelings, the satisfaction with self and others, 
which follow the due amount of sleep required, cannot 
by any possible effort be regained after such an excess. 
Indulgence begets indulgence, consequently the long- 
est sleepers are the most frequently heard complaining 
that they "never get enough," "never feel refreshed or 



PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. 2 l 

rested." Energy, both physical and mental, tranquillity 
of mind, good humor, all these depend largely upon 
a proper understanding of this question. Languor, 
heavy eyelids, dull brain, unquiet thoughts, disincli- 
nation to exertion or duty, are some of the well-known 
characteristics of superfluous sleep ; and the more 
conscientious and quick-witted a person is by nature, 
the more marked will be these symptoms. To attempt 
to regulate the amount of sleep for different people, 
would be as absurd as to regulate that of food ; the 
essential in either case being to direct their own 
thoughts to the subject, and instruct them as to the 
important consequences involved in it. As each person 
has special strength or weakness, inherited or induced 
by mode of life, each demands special treatment con- 
trolled by general principles. To make people or 
children feel the advantages of instruction or advice 
is the only manner to make it effectual. Coercion is 
always distasteful and the instrument repulsive ; hence 
the antagonism usually existing between teacher and 
learner ; but when the latter feels a desire for enlight- 
enment, the relationship is at once changed into one of 
the utmost congeniality. If, under ordinary conditions 
of health, sleep be not refreshing and invigorating, 
making each new morning the beginning of a new 
existence, error is evidently lurking somewhere. With 
suspicion of error comes investigation, although pos- 
sibly it may be pursued only under annoyance and 
discomfort. Whether the individual take too much 
or too little sleep, whether it be influenced by food, 
exercise, occupation, thought, or motion, can be dis- 
covered only by careful study, reflection, and analysis 
of other minds. 



22 PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. 

Whatever of doubt, difficulty, or ignorance is ex- 
perienced by one person, has in some form been 
experienced by others, so that knowledge of others 
is indispensable to self-knowledge. But, while all are 
susceptible to the influences resulting from mode 
of life, certain organizations are peculiarly sensitive, 
liable to be elated or depressed, strengthened or 
weakened by matters which, upon others, would have 
no perceptible effect. Where there is great mental 
activity, scrupulous care should be taken to heed 
nature's warnings with regard to food and sleep, these 
being usually within control, while surroundings 
are not. Nature, if well cared for, is infallible, and, 
whenever she deigns to speak, may be relied upon 
implicitly. 

Voltaire speaks of " fashionable people who linger in 
the bed of idleness until the sun has made half his 
tour, unable either to sleep or to rise, losing many 
precious hours in that middle condition between life 
and death, and yet presuming to complain that life is 
too short." The philosopher, however, does not think 
it strange that people generally should have an innate 
dislike to early rising; only the two extremes, the 
practical and the imaginative, can find any charm in 
such a habit, the first because he has something tan- 
gible to be taken in hand, the second because the 
dominating faculty of his mind allows him no repose 
beyond a certain limit. 

" The flight of our human hours," says De Quincey, 
" is not really more rapid at any one moment than 
another, yet oftentimes to our feelings seems more 
rapid, and this flight startles us like guilty things 
with a more affecting sense of its rapidity, when a dis- 



PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. 



23 



tant church-clock strikes in the night-time, or when, 
upon some solemn summer evening, the sun's disc, 
after settling for a minute with farewell horizontal 
rays, suddenly drops out of sight. The record of our 
loss in such a case seems to us the first intimation of 
its possibility ; as if we could not be made sensible 
that the hours were perishable until it is announced to 
us that already they have perished. We feel a per- 
plexity of distress when that which seems to us the 
cruelest of injuries, a robbery committed upon our 
dearest possession by the conspiracy of the world out- 
side, seems also as in part a robbery sanctioned by our 
own collusion. The world, and the customs of the 
world, never cease to levy taxes upon our time ; that 
is true, and so far the blame is not ours ; but the 
particular degree in which we suffer by this robbery, 
depends much upon the weakness with which we 
ourselves become parties to the wrong, or the energy 
with which we resist it. Resisting or not, however, 
we are doomed to suffer a bitter pang as often as the 
irrecoverable flight of our time is brought home with 
keenness to our hearts." 

What is time? asks the philosopher. Dare I claim 
any part of it, save these moments now in my hands ? 
The best which these can produce, this is true wis- 
dom, and every law of life warns me to use them as if 
they were the last. Not what I intend to do, but what 
I am doing, is the sole question of import; the inten- 
tion may be merely a freak of fancy, a subterfuge for 
exertion, an attempt to forestall admiration through 
brilliant planning; but the thing done stamps me 
as trivial or earnest. The philosopher has this su- 
preme advantage over all other men — he learns from 



24 PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. 

every thing, even from his own deficiencies, errors, 
and sufferings, so that life for him never can be a total 
failure. He accepts the truths discovered in science 
or daily experience, and views calmly all the varied 
phases of human character around him, believing 
always that even the worst evils have direct causes 
and possible ameliorations. Glancing at the lowest 
orders of society, he is amazed at the sobriety, in- 
dustry, frugality, and desire for improvement so fre- 
quently evinced. Noble indeed, he exclaims, must 
those be, who, living in such places and with such 
associates, can still summon energy to work for a 
pittance, can still hope, love, and endure ! When in- 
stances of aggravated wickedness are adduced in proof 
of the innate depravity of man, instead of being horror- 
struck, he is astonished that such cases are not the 
rule rather than the exception. Knowing the human 
heart, and seeing it exposed to unintermitted tempta- 
tions, he wonders that it does not oftener succumb, 
and deduces therefrom a vast amount of native vigor. 
Ascending to the higher classes, — where, through 
education and refinement, man often becomes the most 
beautiful ornament of the world, — he is more and more 
amazed at human capacity for physical and moral resist- 
ance. With such strong inducements to transgression, 
with such opportunities for selfish ease, with such inces- 
sant pleading from all sides for the indulgence of pas- 
sion or the gratification of ambition, how comes it that 
men are not more frequently voluptuaries, hypocrites, 
adulterers, and murderers ? Adamantine indeed must 
be the moral force which resists, even partially, the 
pressure applied to human frailty ! Into whatsoever 
strange places the study of humanity takes him, or 



PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. 2 $ 

however numerous the bewildering speculations ex- 
cited, his reason never admits scorn or contempt ; for, 
through observation of the contradictions, inconsist- 
encies, and perverted inclinations of the best, he grows 
into a just and charitable estimation of the worst. 
Not that he finds any justification for baseness, 
cruelty, or crime, or that his compassion takes the 
form of weak sentimentality ; but that the study of 
cause and effect forces him to conclude that nothing 
better could be expected. He is not surprised, then, 
at seeing ignorant people live empty, frivolous lives, 
find their highest enjoyment in vanity, ostentation, or 
sensuality, and scoff at everything noble, earnest, or 
genuine. Can an illiterate man have any conception 
of the power and beauty of language when wielded 
by a cultured intellect? Can a woman, devoured by 
worldly ambition, dream of the exquisite delight to be 
derived from the contemplation of nature ? Can a child 
see any advantage in study, if at home he hear nothing 
discussed save material desires and plans ? Carlyle 
tells us that " Great Men, taken up in any way, are 
profitable company. We cannot look, however im- 
perfectly, upon a great man, without gaining some 
thing by him. He is the living light-fountain, which 
it is good and pleasant to be near. The light which 
enlightens, which has enlightened the darkness of 
the world ; and this not as a kindled lamp only, but 
rather as a natural luminary, shining by the gift of 
heaven ; a flowing light-fountain, as I say, of native 
original insight, of manhood and heroic nobleness; — in 
whose radiance all souls feel that it is well with them." 
By a happy combination of inherited gifts and self- 
mastery, the philosopher becomes the best type of 

3* 



26 PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. 

a " Great " man worthy of our contemplation and 
reverence, the one whose influence will be felt long 
after other types have been forgotten. 

Turning to his antipode, the fool, we find him not 
necessarily distinguished by cap and bells, but often 
arrayed in the most dignified robes, and surrounded 
by all the paraphernalia of learning; he may, too, be 
honest and well-meaning, exacting from us charitable 
judgment even while greatly irritating us by special 
acts of fool-ishness. To him all* the absorbing prob- 
lems of science or philosophy which engage the 
noblest intellects, are wholly irrelevant to the exi- 
gencies of external life, and consequently beneath his 
notice. He regards ignorance — not as a misfortune 
but as a necessity, and one not to be altogether de- 
plored, since it enables him who chooses to profit by 
it to amass wealth or climb to high places of honor; 
sickness — not as the natural result of physical laws 
violated by ancestors or people themselves, but as a 
vengeful blow from the Creator of the universe, in 
punishment of sin, known or unknown ; subversion 
of plans — not as lessons inculcating humility and 
resignation, but as the malicious thwarting of evil 
spirits ; time — not as a gift to be conscientiously util- 
ized, but merely as a convenient arrangement of days, 
nights, and seasons, from which he is at liberty to 
drain as much ease and pleasure as possible. Finally, 
experience does not bring him consolation for per- 
sonal trial and disappointment, but simply hard facts 
without the softening tints of sentiment, labor without 
the support of principle, suffering without the indem- 
nification of greatness of soul. No marvel, then, that 
his eye grows dull with hopelessness, his heart cold 



PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. 27 

with unbelief, his mind rusty with disuse, his whole 
being dwarfed under the tremendous pressure of 
worldly affairs. 

Voltaire writes to Mme. du Deffand : "A burgo- 
master of Middelburg, whom I do not know, wrote 
to me some time ago, asking, en ami, whether there is 
a God ; if so, whether he concerns himself about us. 
Likewise, whether matter is eternal and capable of 
reflection ; finally, whether the soul is immortal : to 
which he begged me to answer by return of post. I 
receive similar letters every day." This species of fool 
is not yet extinct, and may be easily recognized : 
having no conception whatever of the process called 
"thinking," or of the treasure called "time," by 
means of which other men gain ideas of their own, 
he enters his neighbor's brain-premises, and pene- 
trates even to his soul-sanctum, with as much non- 
chalance as if entering a public reading-room. To 
make him understand that his questions are imperti- 
nently intrusive would be beyond human skill, so that 
ingenuity in escaping the infliction becomes a laudable 
duty. The fools who cause in us the severest conflict 
between natural repulsion and charitable judgment, are 
those who so habitually substitute shams for realities 
that they finally look upon them as synonymous : 
the religious fools, for instance, who try to make 
cheap virtues take the place of sterling goodness, and 
impose them upon the world at large in the form of 
resolutions, promises, plans, dogmas, ceremonies, and 
superstitions. 

"A man's religion," says Carlyle, "is the chief fact 
with regard to him. A man's or a nation of men's. 
By religion I do not mean here the church-creed 



28 PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. 

which he professes, the articles of faith which he will 
sign and, in words or otherwise, assert ; not this 
wholly, in many cases not this at all. We see men 
of all kinds of professed creeds attain to almost all 
degrees of worth or worthlessness under each or any 
of them. This is not what I call religion, this pro- 
fession and assertion ; which is often only a profes- 
sion and assertion from the outworks of the man, 
from the mere argumentative region of him, if even 
so deep as that. But the thing a man does practically 
believe (and this is often enough without asserting it 
even to himself, much less to others); the thing a 
man does practically lay to heart, and know for cer- 
tain, concerning his vital relations to this mysterious 
Universe, and his duty and destiny there, that is in 
all cases the primary thing for him, and creatively 
determines all the rest. That is his religion; or, it 
may be, his mere skepticism and no-religion : the 
manner it is in which he feels himself to be spiritually 
related to the Unseen World or No-world ; and I say, 
if you tell me what that is, you tell me to a very great 
extent what the man is, what the kind of thing he 
will do is. . . . Piety to God, the nobleness that inspires 
a human soul to struggle Heaven-ward, can not be 
'taught' by the most exquisite catechisms or the 
most industrious preachings and drillings. No; alas! 
no. Only by far other methods — chiefly by silent, 
continual Example, silently waiting for the favourable 
word and moment, and aided then by a kind of 
miracle, well-enough named ' the grace of God,' can 
that sacred contagion pass from soul to soul." One 
of the cheap virtues religious fools practice is going 
to church, not because they derive any benefit from 



PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. 



29 



the act, but because it is fashionable, or for the " sake 
of example," or because seeing and hearing any thing 
is less tedious than staying at home. 

Not that the church has not been and is not now the 
inspirer of grand results ! Regarded as a school of 
moral science where earnest men and women congre- 
gate for instruction, and where the teacher by personal 
character and attainments may influence brains and 
hearts simultaneously, it cannot be too zealously sup- 
ported. To be blessed — as many of us have been 
— with a minister whose moral faithfulness and intel- 
lectual supremacy stir the noblest faculties of our being 
to activity, causing us to hate sloth, folly, and cant, 
and driving us, spite of ourselves, to soul-loyalty — to 
be thus blessed during many years of youth and ma- 
turity, is to be fully convinced of the power of the 
church and of our own enormous debt to her. Such 
a ministry becomes to us a fact more eventful than 
birth itself, for without it we might have been super- 
stitious, bigoted, and unhappy ; with it, we have been 
roused to enthusiasm in the present, soothed by hope 
in the future, and penetrated by a profound sympathy 
for humanity. 

But in the church as in other schools there must 
be teachers equal to the needs of scholars, and schol- 
ars with minds eager for knowledge : where this is not 
the case, people who " go to church regularly," lend 
themselves regularly to a sham of the first magnitude. 
"I detest milk-sops and weak souls! Can there be 
any thing more disgraceful than to submit one's soul 
to the lunacy and stupidity of people we should refuse 
to take as our grooms ?" So wrote Voltaire in a burst 
of indignation, and so every ardent being feels who 



30 PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. 

desires to read the mysteries of soul-life by the light 
of reason. 

"The organ of the Divine Spirit," says O. B. Froth- 
ingham, " is the consecrated reason of the present time. 
The consecrated reason, I say ; by which I mean, the 
reason directed towards the personal and social im- 
provement of man. We say, the Divine Spirit is in 
the reason of the present time, as it turns itself hon- 
estly, seriously, believingly, reverently, towards the 
study of truth and good. We believe in the reason 
of man as it stands here at this last point of human 
development; we consult that reason for the rules of 
our faith ; we go to it for fresh disclosures of truth ; 
we walk by its light over the fields of sacred history ; 
among the passages of sacred books ; through the 
labyrinths of church form and usage. We press its 
lamp to our breast when we dip into the sea of cloud 
which the social condition of humanity is to us. What 
it tells us not to believe we put by, no matter how 
cherished and venerable ; what it bids us believe we 
hold to, no matter how new and strange. We are 
certain that if our aims are high, our purposes noble, 
our spirits pure, we shall arrive at our full measure of 
truth." 

So, it would seem, must every man and woman of 
sound mind think ; but fools of both sexes insist that 
reason, although good for every other science, or pro- 
fession, or branch of labor, is not good for religion. 
Here, they argue, the mind must not use its forces, 
but be simply receptive of the traditions of past ages, 
or the dogmas of strong-willed leaders. 

Among the ideas and principles which most strik- 
ingly mark the boundary-line between philosophers 



PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. 



31 



and fools in social life, are those relative to honor — 
that delicate flower, that indispensable guard, that im- 
penetrable and yet easiest of problems, in which all 
the world is interested, but which all the world persist- 
ently refuses to deliberate upon. In a question upon 
which nations, communities, and classes hold such 
diverse opinions, who shall decide as to what consti- 
tutes honor or dishonor for individual man or woman ? 
The philosopher reflects profoundly, and answers 
boldly: I myself! Reason, conscience, and facilities 
for developing them have been given me with the 
direct object of enabling me to decide questions 
which vex and perplex the multitude. Why then, 
when issues as solemn as life or death are at stake, 
should I hesitate to use those means ? Thus he 
decides and acts, and although human weakness pre- 
vents him from making conduct always accord per- 
fectly with principle, he never ceases aiming at that 
height; even if, under passion, he commits a dishonor- 
able deed, his self-respect accepts no redress save unre- 
laxing activity in* repairing the breach. Admitting 
that social laws when violated must receive forfeit- 
ure of privileges from the offender, he nevertheless 
does not think the latter should receive ridicule and 
scorn from fellow-creatures who, possibly, are no more 
virtuous, but only less tempted. Walpole writes to 
Sir Horace Mann, British Ambassador at Florence: 
" There is nothing, sure, so whimsical as modern 
honour ! You may debauch a woman upon a promise 
of marriage and not marry her; you may ruin your 
tailor's or your baker's family by not paying them ; 
you may make Mr. Mann maintain you for eighteen 
months as a public minister, out of his own pocket, 



32 PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. 

and still be a man of honour ! But not to pay a common 
sharper, or not to murder a man who has trod upon 
your toes, is such a blot upon your scutcheon, that 
you could never recover your honour, tho' you had 
in your veins ' all the blood of all the Howards.'" 

The fool, on the contrary, reflects not at all, and 
answers servilely : Custom decides for me ! as for 
reason and conscience, they are only incumbrances 
in the way of pleasure, and where honor is in ques- 
tion to be wholly disregarded. Custom thus becomes 
what Sydney Smith calls the " foolometer with which 
no public man should be unprovided; I mean, the 
acquaintance and society of three or four regular 
British fools as a test of public opinion. Every cabi- 
net-minister should judge of all his measures by his 
foolometer, as a navigator crowds or shortens sail by 
the barometer in his cabin. I have a very valuable 
instrument of that kind myself, which I have used for 
many years ; and I would be bound to predict, with 
the utmost nicety, by the help of this machine, the 
precise effect which any measure w6uld produce upon 
public opinion." 

Doubtless the fool is often driven to folly through 
fear of ridicule, that spy in the domicile of self-con- 
sciousness which fastens its eye upon every move- 
ment, vetoes every impulse, and renders futile every 
attempt at free action. The philosopher may, at cer- 
tain stages, be just as susceptible to this pestilent 
presence as the fool ; but while the latter yields to it 
unresistingly, the former counteracts its influence by 
the aid of reason. 

Honor, in the fool's code, means appearing well in 
the eyes of other fools: to sustain that code he is ready 



PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. 



33 



to make any sacrifice which does not require reflec- 
tion or principle, and descend to any depth in brutality 
or baseness. Throughout his career, he acts, appar- 
ently, upon the advice Punch — alias Jerrold — gives to 
his son upon the advantages of being " Nothing." 
After urging various objections to the learned profes- 
sions or a military life, this judicious father writes: 
"Again, then, I say it, my son, be Nothing! Look 
at the flourishing examples of Nothing about you ! 
Consider the men in this vast metropolis whose 
faces shine with the very marrow of the land, and 
all for doing and being Nothing ! Then, what ease — 
what unconcern — what perfect dignity in the profes- 
sion ! Why, dull-brained, horn-handed labour, sweats 
and grows thin, and dies worn out, whilst Nothing 
gets a redder tinge upon its cheek, a thicker wattle to 
its chin, and a larger compass of abdomen. There are 
hundreds of the goodly profession of Nothing who 
have walked upon three-piled velvet from their nurses' 
arms to the grave : men who in the most triumphant 
manner vindicate the ingenuity of the human mind ; 
for enjoying and professing every creature-comfort 
of existence, not even a conjuror, nay, sometimes 
not even a police magistrate, can discover how they 

get it Oh, my son ! I grant the secret 

may be difficult to compass; but study for it — search 
it out, though your brain become dry and rattle in 
your scull like a withered hazel-nut — still, once dis- 
cover how to live with Nothing, and you may snap 
your fingers at all mortal accident. Nothing, when a 
successful Nothing, is the Nabob of the world ! " 

Among women the term " honor" is likewise in- 
terpreted according to the wisdom or folly of the 

4 



34 



PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. 



individual. She who is emancipated from ignorance 
and caste, knows well that honor as understood by 
conventionality is not the delicate, fragile thing her 
own mind conceives, but something coarse and ex- 
pedient which serves, not to enhance the lustre of 
purity in her sex, but to hold in check passions which 
otherwise would rend asunder the domestic altar. 

To learn how small an appreciation of genuine 
honor some women possess, we have only to glance 
at those who, under the aegis called respectability, 
manoeuvre and intrigue unblushingly towards the 
accomplishment of gross aims ; or at the extraor- 
dinary developments furnished by those who have 
broken away from the restraints of pride, fear, and 
shame, and abandoned themselves to unbridled van- 
ity, passion, or lust. 

Were honor esteemed by women as a gem of 
intrinsic worth, we should be spared the display of 
cant, intolerance, and petty malice so frequently made 
by self-asserting virtue. 

" It always amazes me," writes Walpole, " when I 
reflect on the women, who are the first to propagate 
scandal of one another. If they would but agree not 
to censure, what they all agree to do, there would be 
no more loss of character among them than among 
men. A woman cannot have an affair but instantly all 
her sex travel about to publish it, and leave her off: 
now, if a man cheats another of his estate at play, 
forges a will, or marries his ward to his own son, 
nobody thinks of leaving him off for such trifles !" 

Nothing in the study of human nature seems more 
difficult to solve than this extraordinary tendency of 
woman to shun, traduce, and ostracise those of her 



PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. 35 

own sex who have been detected in violating moral 
or social laws. Might it not, perhaps, be partially- 
explained by applying to it the same motive which 
makes " good" children so eager to make known the 
derelictions of their " naughty " comrades ? Having 
been debarred by their " goodness" — which, literally 
translated, might stand as fear, pride, or calculation of 
consequences — from tasting the stolen fruit said to be 
so sweet, they take a petty revenge by exaggerating 
or blackening the errors of their more adventurous or 
less circumspect companions. Be this as it may, the 
trait of character which instigates one woman to de- 
nounce another because of moral weakness, deserves 
to be lashed with ridicule, satire, and contempt — any 
weapon indeed which would lay bare the base motive 
or mental imbecility that generated the deed. Such 
treatment might in time prove effectual in concealing, 
even if it could not cure, what must be deplored as 
a painful blemish upon female character: as for the 
efficacy of Christianity as a remedy, facts are continu- 
ally demonstrating that practical charity of this nature 
is wholly beyond its jurisdiction. 

" II n'y a personne d'aussi indulgent que les femmes 
vertueuses pour les femmes galantes," said Mirabeau ; 
and this is as true now in the nineteenth century, of 
Christian women in America, as it was in 1700, of 
Christian women in Europe. Is it not the plainest of 
facts that the most gentle, loving, and pure among 
women are ever the most ready to drop the mantle of 
mitigation over their erring sisters, while the would-be 
judges, harsh critics, and bitter censors are usually the 
most unenlightened and unlovely of their sex, women 
who, notwithstanding their boast, open or implied, of 



36 



PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. 



immaculate virtue, never knew the meaning of either 
warm love or warm charity? 

A thorough examination of the various types of 
fool found, say — for the sake of reducing the number 
to a calculable basis — in the most civilized nations 
alone, would doubtless result in many highly in- 
teresting discoveries as to the actual condition of 
existing generations, and the prospects of those to 
come. Probably, well-marked specimens might, with- 
out much difficulty, be produced from any one class 
of society ; enough, at least, to prove that no kind of 
mere occupation or accidental position would prevent 
the most striking attributes from developing. Litera- 
ture, society, science, religion, commerce, art, labor — 
all doubtless would be well represented, and afford 
abundant material for meditation and speculation ; 
which twofold process, if carried *on in many minds, 
might, in course of time, bring about changes which 
to sober, practical people of the present age, would 
appear far beyond the range of credulity. Could such 
people imagine, for instance, that the majority of men 
and women in the most favored classes of society, 
might — say two hundred years hence — be thoroughly 
convinced that artificial stimulants and gross indul- 
gences are not capable of producing the keenest 
sensations of delight pertaining to mankind ? That, 
in palpable demonstration of such a conviction, such 
a majority might be found living natural, happy lives ; 
striving neither to outshine nor to overreach their 
fellow-creatures; seeking eagerly, not the phantom 
wealth, but the reality character, and when attained, 
sharing her benefits generously with others ? 

" If you read," says Goethe, " you ought to under- 



PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. 



17 



stand ; if you write, you ought to know something ; 
if you are to believe, you must use your reason ; if 
desires are excited in you, there must be a cause ; 
if you claim anything, you will not obtain it ; finally, 
if you have experience, you are bound to utilize it." 

How shall we become philosophers ? is a question 
at once all-comprehensive and — save through personal 
research and enthusiasm — unanswerable. 

How shall we avoid being fools? is a query to which 
all men and women should bend their highest faculties 
in the hope of receiving a response which, if not satis- 
factory, will at least serve to keep alive their interest 
in the subject, and make their conduct less fool-like 
than it otherwise would be. 

Laurel-Wreath, or Cap and Bells ? Which of these 
shall we choose for our distinguishing ornament, to 
wear now during life, and to be remembered by after 
death ? 

The first emblem means present toil, self-abnega- 
tion, anxiety, unrest, suffering, and — possibly — fame 
won by that discipline. 

The second emblem means present ease, pleasure, 
freedom from care, self-complacency and — " forgetful- 
ness and deep oblivion" — won by that laxity. 



IX. 

FINDING OUR LEVEL. 



Probe the earth to see where your main roots run. — Thoreau. 

A chances egales, il faut agir selon l'impulsion de son vrai carac 
tere. — Balzac. 

Doch wir bespiegeln ja uns immer selbst in allem was wir hervor 
bringen. — Goethe. 



From the instant mental consciousness begins, we 
hear certain objects spoken of by the friends and coun- 
selors about us, as desirable to be seen or obtained ; 
sometimes because such objects are of intrinsic worth, 
but oftener because it is the custom to see or obtain 
them. Usually, novices in any department are docile 
and well disposed to follow courteously-given advice ; 
consequently, the vast majority of mankind may be 
seen toiling up and down the great mountainous dis- 
tricts of knowledge, under the firm persuasion that 
such exercise, however distasteful, is indispensable to 
recognition by their contemporaries, During the no- 
vitiate — a period averaging twenty years — it is rare to 
find an individual halting on the road to discuss the 
wisdom of his course or its probable results ; still less 
would he place himself in positive rebellion to the 
established code, which prescribes such wanderings 
as essential to what is called education. 
38 



FINDING OUR LEVEL. 



39 



The season of juvenile submission once passed, how- 
ever, there come questionings which will not be set 
aside, doubts and scruples which persistently clamor 
for consideration. 

To work during the greater part of each day under 
a firm conviction, none the less so because unex- 
pressed, that our energies are being misdirected, and 
that the exhaustion which must presently ensue, will 
leave no soothing sense of time well spent, is to stunt 
the intellect, deaden the heart, and make life a hope- 
less treadmill. Until a man knows how the various 
ingredients constituting his character may be made to 
assimilate with the expenditure of vitality which every 
hour exacts, labor must seem to him an unmitigated 
curse. But, with a just estimate of his own worth, 
and a determination to prevent his personality from 
being overshadowed by the will or whim of another, 
he grants a cheerful acquiescence to the role assigned 
him in the life-drama of his generation. Before doing 
good service in any branch of human labor, men must 
be thoroughly convinced as to their own ability and 
purpose, as well as wholly divested of frivolity; and 
none can be in this serviceable condition until the 
level is attained where thinking and acting become 
harmonious. 

In cases where firmness and self-reliance are in- 
herent, prompt action upon thought is easy enough ; 
but where doubt and self-mistrust preponderate, the 
ridicule and vulgar prying of the world are like 
sharp-edged instruments impossible to avoid, and 
cruelly painful in their effects ; and if, through this or 
any other cause, a cessation of development ensues, 
gloom and uneasiness become habitual. 



4 FINDING OUR LEVEL. 

Upon hearing of people who are cheerful under the 
heaviest burdens, uncomplaining and hopeful during 
the bitterest disappointments, the shallow-minded are 
either wholly incredulous or disposed to pronounce 
such a condition unnatural. But there is nothing 
more singular in this than in seeing other people dis- 
tressed and unhappy amidst the greatest prosperity, a 
phase too common to have escaped even the most 
casual observer. 

Once enabled to throw off the crippling effects of 
false teaching and servile imitation, there may be a 
steady advance towards the goal indicated by intuition 
and reason, those two potentates whose mandates, 
even when startlingly bold, are never beyond the 
capacity of their chosen agents. 

The individuals thus emancipated may be easily 
counted, while the multitude is ruled by the despotism 
of ignorance, luxury, or custom. Even civilization 
itself — that wondrous collection of forces which dis- 
tinguishes humanitarianism from brutality, culture 
from ignorance — even that, in seeking the generaliza- 
tion of talents for material advancement, bears down 
upon every attempt at individual life as hurtful to the 
general welfare. There are phases, indeed, in which 
civilization so strongly resembles a stupendous plan 
for the extermination of individuality, that only the 
strongest natures can discriminate between its help- 
fulness and its hindrances. Such natures, having 
learned the infinitesimal value of the world's judgment 
in comparison with personal conviction, are prepared 
to resist both the unreasonable demands of an auto- 
cratic conventionality, and the puerile expectations of 
popular opinion. From a worldly stand-point — that 



FINDING OUR LEVEL. 4 1 

commonly considered best — it cannot be denied that 
impulse and conviction seem advisers greatly wanting 
in wisdom ; but from that other stand-point whence 
heroes are descried, there is a prospect encouraging 
to the loftiest aspirations and the most uncompro- 
mising principles. The hero of any age or clime, 
while keenly susceptible, it may be, to the incredulity 
or the scorn of contemporaries, nevertheless contrives 
to keep his personality intact. Come what will of mis- 
construction or contumely, he is not to be merged in 
the heterogeneous crowd which dares to think, feel, 
and act only after an extraneous criterion. 

To him such a fate appears ineffably degrading, 
and to avoid it, he is prepared to sacrifice both the 
emoluments of labor and the favorable judgment of 
the world. 

For him existence means more than a succession 
of fleeting pleasures, feverish pains, sanguine hopes, 
and wretched failures. Not callous to physical priva- 
tion or mental agony, he yet feels that these ills must 
be held subordinate to the great purposes which stir 
his heart, and that with him rests a responsibility 
which cannot be lessened by communication or sym- 
pathy. Glowing with an unquenchable desire for 
excellence, but encircled by those who cannot un- 
derstand either his aims or his conflicts, the hero 
must, to a certain extent, live apart from his fellow- 
creatures. He himself, possibly, is unable to explain 
how he came to think or feel thus, and there are 
hours of self-mistrust in which the most earnest com- 
munion with nature cannot prevent him from chafing 
under the apparent inconsistencies between the outer 
and the inner life. But into cessation from toil, or 



42 



FINDING OUR LEVEL. 



abandonment of his object, he is never beguiled ; and, 
after reiterated attempts to fathom the mysteries of 
being, he finally emerges imbued with that fiery energy 
which seldom fails to carry its inspiration to a*tri- 
umphant issue. The hero, however, appears only at 
rare intervals in human history, and when the dazzling 
vision has passed, we are forced to turn our attention 
to more common types of humanity, to those who, 
if they do not exact admiration, at least have a claim 
upon our interest and, possibly, our assistance. 

Viewed collectively, we find people living under 
certain pleasant or unpleasant conditions without am- 
bition beyond the gratifying of immediate wants. In 
their eyes, the feeblest innovation upon time-honored 
custom or ephemeral fashion, is a breach of decorum 
deserving of notice only as a target for ridicule, or as 
indicative of unpardonable eccentricity. In many cases, 
long years of imitation and repression gradually harden 
them into the stereotyped characters whose measured 
phrases and colorless acts have a painfully rasping 
effect upon warm, impulsive natures. To them, the 
brilliantly tinted phases resulting from intellectual 
growth, impassioned affection, and moral force, are 
wholly unknown. Judging all men by their own 
narrow experience and artificial ideas, they are un- 
able to distinguish innocent, spontaneous enjoyment 
from wilful transgression, and are continually con- 
founding the products of their own paltry time-serving 
with those of genuine virtue or enthusiasm. 

To face bravely the realities around us, accept the 
law of limitation inseparable from humanity, and fear- 
lessly choose such thinking and doing as will best 
produce inward harmony, is to begin a career which 



FINDING OUR LEVEL. 



43 



finds its chief glory in welding social and moral diffi- 
culties into noble action. That the complications of 
life may be justly dealt with, we must study our own 
mettle, and, by frequently challenging investigation 
of soul and sense, fit the mind to receive high moral 
conceptions as well as those images of grace and 
beauty which widen its influence without diminishing 
its power. 

Finding our level suggests a state in which content 
is the ground-work of both labor and repose, a con- 
tent arising, not from supine indolence or limited 
understanding, but from an irrefragable conviction 
that the finest attributes of the very self are in course 
of development. 

" However mean or inconsiderable the act," says 
Ruskin, " there is something in the well-doing of it 
which has fellowship with the noblest forms of 
manly virtue; and the truth, decision, and temper- 
ance which we reverently regard as honorable con- 
ditions of the spiritual being, have a representative 
or derivative influence over the works of the hands, 
the movements of the frame, and the action of the 
intellect." 

And again : 

" The greatness or smallness of a man is, in the 
most conclusive sense, determined for him at his birth, 
as strictly as it is determined for a fruit whether it is 
to be a currant or an apricot. Education, favorable 
circumstances, resolution, and industry can do much ; 
in a certain sense they do everything; that is to say, 
they determine whether the poor apricot shall fall in 
the form of a green bead, blighted by an east wind, 
shall be trodden under foot, or whether it shall expand 



44 FINDING OUR LEVEL. 

into tender pride, and sweet brightness of golden velvet. 
But apricot out of currant, — great man out of small, — 
did never yet art or effort make; and, in a general 
way, men have their excellence nearly fixed for them 
when they are born ; a little cramped and frost-bitten 
on one side, a little sun-burnt and fortune-spotted on 
the other, they reach, between good and evil chances, 
such size and taste as generally belong to men of their 
calibre, and the small in their serviceable bunches, the 
great in their golden isolation, have, these no cause for 
regret, nor those for disdain." 

Simply assenting to truth, however, will not trans- 
fuse it into actual life. A man cannot at the same time 
be a boon companion and a profound thinker, a society 
favorite and' a true artist, a devotee of pleasure and a 
scientific explorer. 

The supreme object of each being should be to 
discover the key-note of his mission before the most 
vigorous years and the most valuable opportunities 
have for ever vanished. 

The idea that comes nearer than any other towards 
furnishing the clue to that mission, and, moreover, 
yields inexhaustible interest during the search, is edu- 
cation. To teach the unteachable is the most futile of 
human tasks, and each day of such endeavor verifies 
the assertion of De Quincey that education means, 
"not the poor machinery that moves by spelling-books 
and grammars, but by that mighty system of central 
forces hidden in the deep bosom of human life, which 
by passion, by strife, by temptation, by the energies 
of resistance, works for ever upon children, — resting 
not day or night, any more than the mighty wheel 
of day and night themselves, whose moments, like 



FINDING OUR LEVEL. 45 

restless spokes, are glimmering for ever as they 
revolve." 

The mental atmosphere in which a child breathes 
during the first ten years of life, generates a system 
of ideas and principles which no subsequent training 
can entirely change. To observe the average instruc- 
tions of the nursery, — "that edifying domestic Botany 
Bay," — it might be inferred that the end in view was 
to make boys selfish and effeminate, girls vain and 
silly. From hearing externals perpetually extolled 
to the exclusion of thought or sentiment, both sexes 
are liable to develop either into reckless defiance of 
authority or into contemptible hypocrisy. 

Encouraged by ignorant attendants or careless pa- 
rents to indulge their most frivolous propensities, they 
acquire a habit of thinking unworthy thoughts, and 
gratifying low appetites. 

Hence the inevitable conflicts of maturer years find 
them weak in choosing and irresolute in pursuing any 
honorable career. Otherwise, it would scarcely be 
possible for boys to approach manhood with so slight 
a knowledge of their own capabilities that they talk of 
choosing science, commerce, or mechanics, as if mere 
choice could insure them success ; or for young girls 
to leave school and take their places in society with no 
stronger sense of membership than a desire to enjoy 
its privileges, occupy the best places, and become the 
recipients of boundless admiration and homage. 

The exceptions who rise above or sink below the 
domestic standard of intellect and morals are those 
children who have peculiar natural endowments, or who 
have been subjected to accidental external influences. 
To say that education is the actual source of all human 

5 



46 FINDING OUR LEVEL. 

happiness and misery, is indeed but a simple truism; 
but inasmuch as ample proof exists that even among 
professors of that science, very few look beyond 
mechanism and routine, truisms bearing upon so 
vital a subject may be repeated in every variety of 
tone and form. Whoever condenses into his doc- 
trines the closest intimacy with human nature and the 
strongest desire to render it honest service, will finally 
receive the broadest hearing and the profoundest 
respect. 

According to De Tocqueville : "There is no country 
in the world where there are so few ignorant people 
and so few savants as in America. There being few 
rich people, nearly every one must have a profes- 
sion, and every profession demands an apprenticeship. 
Hence, the Americans can give only the first years of 
life to the general culture of intelligence. At fifteen 
they enter business, and thus their education finishes 
where ours begins. If continued beyond that age, it 
is directed only towards something special and lucra- 
tive: a science is studied like a trade, and then applied 
exclusively to temporary needs. In America, most of 
the rich were once poor, and almost all the idle men 
were in youth busy; consequently, even when the 
taste for study might have existed there was no time 
to gratify it, and when the time has been acquired the 
taste is no longer there. Hence there is not a class in 
which intellectual pleasures are transmitted with hered- 
itary ease and leisure, and which honors the works of 
intelligence. The desire for abandonment to such 
labors is lacking, no less than the power. Human 
knowledge there, has a certain middle grade, one 
which all minds approach, some by rising to it, 



FINDING OUR LEVEL. 



47 



others by stooping to it. We find there an im- 
mense number of individuals holding pretty much 
the same ideas with regard to religion, history, 
science, political economy, legislation, and govern- 
ment." 

To enumerate the changes that have taken place 
in the United States since De Tocqueville cast his 
critical eye upon us would avail little if it could not 
prove that those very changes had counteracted the 
strong tendency to mediocrity which he so vividly 
describes, and with which we ourselves are uncomfort- 
ably familiar. Temporal prosperity rarely evokes those 
individual traits which culminate in strong character ; 
and in general, good fortune is far less conducive to 
mental development than adversity. 

Just as a man, amid ample opportunities, may live 
through his threescore years and ten without add- 
ing aught to his stock of ideas or sentiments, so a 
nation may live through successive centuries without 
in the least elevating its general tone of morality or 
intellect. 

Laying aside the panoply of national pride which 
covers so many defects, .we cannot fail to see that the 
qualities of character we prize most highly are those 
which exercise a direct influence upon tangible worldly 
benefits. The one, for example, called "common sense" 
— "cette idole des sots" — is honored as if it embraced 
every thing most ennobling in the category of human 
virtues ; and yet, in its subserviency to public opinion, 
its perpetual vigilance over petty forms of speech and 
manner, and its ruthless sacrifice of original thought 
to temporary ease, there is more to excite contempt 
than respect. Under no one name is there a greater 



48 FINDING OUR LEVEL. 

amount of genuine intellectual force squandered than 
under this of common sense ; and those whose re- 
flective powers are not balanced with force of will, 
should zealously cultivate the instinct which leads 
them to avoid that enervating companionship. True, 
he who adopts this creed of common sense is exempt 
from numerous cares and embarrassments which stand 
in the way of success, and under all contingencies is 
assured of the encouraging sympathy of friends and 
neighbors ; while for the unfortunate wight who, un- 
blessed with that belief, refuses to see the advantages 
of following in the well-worn groove of routine, and 
rushes heedlessly into the dangerous grounds of inde- 
pendent thought, there is no epithet too censorious, no 
verdict too severe. 

Common sense, as usually interpreted, is the unfail- 
ing source of that mediocrity which finds its greatest 
satisfaction in doing "as others do," and regards spon- 
taneous action with suspicion and dislike. 

The quality called "industry" is one likewise liable 
to be misconstrued by a nation pre-eminent for prac- 
tical tendencies. To be persuaded or forced into a 
career of activity having no relation to our personal 
ability or ambition, is to cut short our plans of use- 
fulness by blighting whatever of originality we once 
possessed. 

The dogmatism or the muscular example of our 
neighbor should no more influence our own conduct, 
than his mode of spending money should direct our 
purchases, or his gastronomic tastes the choice of 
viands for our table. 

Industry, justly apprehended, is as much an attri- 
bute of genius as of humble labor; but the spurious 



FINDING OUR LEVEL. 



49 



kind which sets in motion our nerves at the caprice 
of another is an expression of force purely automatic 
and valueless. 

The term " selfishness" is from most lips a vague, 
unmeaning one, applied indiscriminately to those who 
appear to have as much regard for their own bodies, 
brains, and souls, as for those of others. In childhood, 
selfishness is as natural to healthy organizations as the 
impulse to take food or flee from danger: in maturity, 
it should be honored as a law of ethical self-preser- 
vation, the one which, perhaps, more than any other, 
prevents a being from being classed among millions 
neither better nor worse than himself. Can that which 
prompts a man to leave ordinary comfort for the sake 
of moral or scientific research, to abandon pleasure 
for philosophy, to forego worldly favor that humanity 
may be benefited, justly be termed selfishness ? Yet 
these pursuits are so stigmatized whenever they clash 
with material interests. 

Nature stamps her work plainly enough, and endows 
each of her children with the faculties best adapted to 
the work set before him ; human folly, however, would 
fain devise something better than nature, and persist- 
ently endeavors to thwart her beneficent plans. How 
many men in a nation have a vital faith in the indi- 
vidual possibilities within themselves ? Precisely this 
faith put into action constitutes genius ; and one thus 
animated finds no rest, no peace, until every hour of 
life is made to accord with his best conception. In 
vain does he glance at others around him, and try to 
find temporary relief in their irresolution, indolence, or 
laxity! His soul will not tolerate any such sham or 
compromise, but sternly turns his glance inward and 

5* 



5 o FINDING OUR LEVEL. 

holds up personal faithfulness as the only standard to 
be followed. So long as he knows himself inferior to 
the best that is in him, what avails it to see that he is 
no worse than his neighbors, that he is even respected, 
admired, or beloved ! 

If we cannot give ourselves good testimonials as to 
honest living and working, we become self-distrustful, 
inefficient, and unreliable. 

The enthusiasm or the disgust our work inspires in 
us proves whether it proceeds from our own conception 
or from passive adoption of another's idea. If from the 
latter, our daily drudgery will seem as hopeless as that 
of the chained galley-slave ; if from the former, neither 
toil nor failure will be counted in the keen delight we 
feel while searching for the level which is to bring us 
the use of whatever brain-power lies latent, and show 
us the purposes to which it may legitimately be con- 
secrated. 

What profound cause for thankfulness when people 
find something to do, something which, after the posi- 
tive needs of existence have received their meed of 
attention, will prove a satisfying and ennobling occu- 
pation ! 

Do we not see many poor, famishing souls in the so- 
called well-to-do classes wandering about aimlessly and 
drearily, finding no definite object of interest, and finally 
grasping at pleasure, fashion, or devotee-ism, as a 
means of filling up an otherwise empty existence? 

Self-consciousness, in its best sense, is a state imply- 
ing great intelligence, keen sensibilities, and a profound 
respect for human nature. The self is regarded from 
every possible point, not for purposes of pampering, 
but with the noble aim of developing and consecrating. 



FINDING OUR LEVEL. 



51 



Physical structure, mental calibre, inherited advan- 
tages or defects, are all patiently examined, and only 
when these are understood can conscious life be said 
to have begun. Individual life then becomes the key 
to that mystery called mankind ; and although we find 
in ourselves much for which we are not accountable, 
yet even this may inculcate patient forbearance for 
others. 

Why do so many people insist upon trying to do 
the things for which they are totally unfitted ? They 
begin again and again, try this and that, do a little, 
stop a little, weary themselves greatly, and finally de- 
sist only when aware that the next step would pros- 
trate them. Such can hardly conceive of the honest 
enjoyment attainable by the mere doing of the things 
for which natural tastes fit them. Not that a high 
degree of excellence is even then always possible, but 
this fact causes no uneasiness to one using energy in 
the right direction. True workers are content to work 
without any expectation as to results. Women, per- 
haps, suffer more than men from arbitrary customs. 
What, for instance, could be more depressing to a fine, 
buoyant girl, with no ear for music, than to be com- 
pelled to sit so many hours a day at the piano ? If a 
child of strong feelings, she will naturally shirk it 
whenever possible and take refuge in something more 
congenial. Even if a combination of ambition and 
conscientiousness enable her to stifle repugnance and 
persevere- — what, after all, is accomplished ? So much 
mechanism, nothing more : a musical box could do as 
much with less expense and fatigue. Put that same 
child to another task, and lo, instead of drudgery and 
discontent, we have ease and satisfaction. Why, then, 



52 



FINDING OUR LEVEL. 



do parents and teachers so often ignore this truth, thus 
rendering the application which should be a source of 
the purest delight a labor wholly beyond the strength 
of the laborer? Goethe says, " I confess I often admire 
those teachers and moral leaders who exact only me- 
chanical duties from their pupils. It is easiest for them- 
selves and easiest for the world." 

The evil effects of early misdirection are lifelong, and 
even the severest application in maturity cannot wholly 
remove the stumbling-block. As a result of this fatal 
perversion of force, the majority live on from year to 
year, resignedly going through with a series of duties 
so called, but secretly thinking life a weary, profitless 
routine : even the few, who by chance have been led 
to think for themselves and who rebel at every step 
against senseless forms, often lack strength to break 
the long-worn fetters. 

So-called modern enlightenment, by this same per- 
version of force, does its utmost to reduce thought 
and sentiment to a system, arguing, that if regu- 
larity and conformity form the basis of progress, the 
welfare of the nation demands the uprooting of any 
prejudice or obstacle which prevents the enforcement 
of those two principles. Hence, the quality of char- 
acter called "eccentricity," judged by this logic, is 
the cause of a large portion of that jarring and dis- 
content in social affairs which from time to time 
threaten revolution. 

"So-and-so grows eccentric," people say, and 
straightway open their eyes and shake their heads, 
as if foreseeing the unhappy consequences which 
must inevitably result from so unnatural a condition 
of mind. But the term "grows eccentric," implies 



FINDING OUR LEVEL. 



53 



a misapprehension, for " So-and-so" was of that 
same condition of mind at birth, although, owing 
to cramping and repressing throughout youth, he 
was enabled to conceal it during a series of years. 
Finally, however, nature resents such interference 
and forces special traits, whether physical or mental, 
to the light. The native "eccentric" lets go, one by 
one, the old prejudices, customs, and fears, and de- 
termines to live more in harmony with himself; this 
process is duly observed and commented upon by 
his fellows, the practical majority, who, in the in- 
terest of humanity at large, do what in them lies 
to thwart his aim. Impossible ! they cry, that this 
man should be allowed to continue his insane tricks 
— while we have muscle and means we must circum- 
vent them ! What would become of the prosperity 
of the world, were all men encouraged to think for 
themselves and act up to conviction ! Surely the 
most simple-minded can see that if individual action 
ever came to be deemed better for intelligent beings 
than a general following, irretrievable confusion 
would ensue ! Many, now connected by business 
and family ties, or involved in schemes of religion 
or philanthropy, would at once withdraw and assert 
their intention to lead wholly different lives : people, 
now submissive and contented in the service of 
the world, would utter wild and treasonable senti- 
ments, and eventually attempt to live in accordance 
with them ! In short, there is no sphere of human 
activity in which eccentricity is not a positive hin- 
drance to every accepted doctrine of civilization, and 
a direct encouragement to social anarchy! So reasons 
the world. 



54 FINDING OUR LEVEL. 

Exhorted from the first dawn of intelligence to take 
other people as a standard, children soon learn to hold 
such firmly-rooted principles upon the subject, that even 
a liberal education may fearlessly be risked. Statistics 
assure us that, with the above preliminary course, cases 
are rare in which independence of thought and of action 
has resulted from any subsequent treatment. What 
just cause for satisfaction have not our law-givers 
and teachers in viewing the results of their combined 
exertions ! Thousands of beings variously endowed, 
made not merely to conform to established customs, 
but — what must be considered a still greater triumph 
— to the same modes of thought and feeling! To 
enforce similarity in dress and manner is compara- 
tively easy; but success in regulating the intellect and 
heart with mathematical precision, draws forth un- 
bounded admiration ! What more could be desired for 
the progress of a nation! In vain do philosophers 
remonstrate : What are our fellow-creatures, that we 
should strive so hard to be like them, and make such 
sacrifices to their opinions ! 

In their opinion, eccentricity is simply a living in 
accordance with the honest impulses of the soul, and, 
regarding conscience as an infallible guide, they see 
nothing to be dreaded in entering upon such a life. 
On the contrary, they maintain' that the world should 
be confronted with its own weapons of scorn and 
derision, made to realize that individual rights are 
not to be trampled upon ; that even when leading its 
votaries into strange freaks, these cases may serve to 
inculcate valuable lessons; that strangeness is more 
easily tolerated than hypocrisy, and vanity than apish- 
ness. Finally, they agree that what may be affected 



FINDING OUR LEVEL. 55 

eccentricity in one man, is simply character in an- 
other, — a fact illustrating the futility of consulting any 
authority except personal judgment ; that while re- 
fined and cultured tastes would induce a natural desire 
to avoid clashing with ill-will or brutality, yet no exter- 
nal pressure would be able to crush moral conviction; 
that while permitting freedom of thought and action 
to others, they would demand similar privileges for 
themselves, and choose conflict rather than yield to 
unjust conditions. 

Every one would be eccentric if he dared, inasmuch 
as no two created beings are endowed alike ; but the 
penalties inflicted by an irritated world are so numer- 
ous, that people gradually accustom themselves to the 
miseries of conformity, and come to like what they 
once despised. 

Life is an inconceivably beautiful thing, so soon as 
we reach that point whence we can look out upon 
it through a clear conscience and a character well 
buffeted by experience. The one diffuses a pure, 
heavenly light over all the strange and complex mass 
which meets the eye, the other tones down our en- 
thusiasm without destroying its vigor. 

Enthusiasm is to the character what blood is to the 
physical life. Without it, lassitude and finally death 
ensue. Upon its quality, however, depends the beauty 
or deformity of the life it nourishes. Ideality is at the 
bottom of all true enthusiasm; the striving after per- 
fection makes the great artist, the noble philanthropist, 
the self-sacrificing patriot. The idealist soon discovers 
how easy it is to appear civil, courteous, respectable, 
virtuous; how difficult to be truly benevolent, tolerant, 



5 6 FINDING OUR LEVEL. 

and charitable ; but is never satisfied until earnestly 
engaged in acquiring the best he sees. 

What Sir Joshua Reynolds says of painting, may 
readily be applied to those who flatter themselves they 
are living well when they are living in all respects 
like other people. " I consider copying," says Sir 
Joshua, " as a delusive kind of industry : the Student 
satisfies himself with the appearance of doing some- 
thing ; he falls into the dangerous habit of imitating 
without selecting, and of labouring without any de- 
termined object ; as it requires no effort of the mind, 
he sleeps over his work; and those powers of invention 
and composition which ought particularly to be called 
out, and put in action, lie torpid and lose their energy 
for want of exercise. . . . 

" How incapable those are of producing any thing of 
their own, who have spent much of their time in 
making finished copies, is well known to all who are 
conversant with our art. . . . 

" An eye critically nice can only be formed by ob- 
serving well-coloured pictures with attention ; and by 
close inspection and minute examination, you will dis- 
cover, at last, the manner of handling, the artifices of 
contrast, glazing, and other expedients by which good 
colourists have raised the value of their tints, and by 
which nature has been so happily imitated. . . . 

" When you have clearly and distinctly learned in 
what good colouring consists, you cannot do better 
than have recourse to nature herself, who is always at 
hand, and in comparison of whose true splendour the 
best coloured pictures are but faint and feeble. . . . 

" To him, however, who has the ambition to be a 
real master, the solid satisfaction which proceeds from 



FINDING OUR LEVEL. 



57 



a consciousness of his advancement (of which seeing 
his own faults is the first step) will very abundantly 
compensate for the mortification of present disappoint- 
ment. . . . 

" We all must have experienced how lazily, and, 
consequently, how ineffectually, instruction is received 
when forced upon the mind by others. Few have 
been taught to any purpose who have not been their 
own teachers. . . . 

"Tho' a man cannot at all times, and in all places, 
paint or draw, yet the mind can prepare itself by laying 
in proper materials, at all times, and in all places. Both 
Livy and Plutarch, in describing Philopcemen, one of 
the ablest generals of antiquity, have given us a strik- 
ing picture of a mind always intent upon its profession, 
and by assiduity obtaining those excellencies which 
some all their lives vainly expect from nature. . . . 

" Every object that presents itself is to him a lesson. 
He regards all nature with a view to his profession, 
and combines her beauties, or corrects her defects. 
He examines the countenances of men under the in- 
fluence of passion; and often catches the most pleasing 
hints from subjects of turbulence or deformity. Even 
bad pictures themselves supply him with useful docu- 
ments; and, as Leonardo da Vinci has observed, he 
improves upon the fanciful sketches that are sometimes 
seen in the fire, or are accidentally sketched upon a 
discoloured wall." 

Every teacher, whatever his special branch, helps 
us to find our level, that is, if our minds are in that 
teachable condition which implies desire and power 
of receiving. If we are satisfied to stay where we are 
mentally and morally, believing that there is nothing 



5 8 FINDING OUR LEVEL. 

special for us to do in the world and that aspiration 
and ambition are only for those who have some won- 
derful talent, we are not teachable. Even when a mind 
is active and ardent, it may have become so habituated 
to thraldom — of custom, of the senses, or of habit — 
as to lose its power to project, invent, and soar. It 
may see the level where by right it belongs, and yet, 
owing to spiritual lethargy, be utterly incapable of the 
effort required to reach it. 

A soul that has been true to its earlier self is one 
of the fairest sights of earth, uplifting and ennobling 
all with whom it comes in contact ; and such truthful- 
ness implies a continual stepping forward, a steady, 
visible ascent, so that year by year retrospection shows 
many obstacles overcome, many advantages gained. 

Usually, however, people yield, after a short and in- 
effectual struggle, to what is called the " natural course 
of events;" in other words, they give themselves up to 
the current. If young, they are told that all young 
people have visionary, impracticable, and romantic 
ideas of life, which greatly interfere with worldly pros- 
pects, and that, consequently, it is a duty to eradicate 
or conceal them. To follow such counsel necessitates 
retrogression instead of progress, a gradual oozing out 
of whatever force once existed. 

" Etre respectable," says Victor Hugo, " cela im- 
plique une foule d'observances, depuis le dimanche bien 
sanctifie jusqu'a la cravate blanche bien mise. ' Ne 
pas se faire montrer au doigt,' voila encore une loi 
terrible. Etre montre au doigt, c'est le diminutif de 
l'anatheme." 

Nothing degrades people more in their own eyes 
than the consciousness of this dread of the world. 



FINDING OUR LEVEL. 



59 



Wretched slavery indeed when people dare not be 
themselves ! Ever at war with circumstances, they 
enjoy neither self-respect nor the consideration of that 
world they are so desirous of conciliating. They feel 
their mental and moral faculties daily decreasing in 
power, realize the cause, and yet shrink from adopting 
the only efficacious remedy ; they know the beauty of 
a genuine life, but are dragged down by indolence or 
irresolution to the level of the sluggard, and left there 
helpless, save for a few faint rays of hope which flash 
athwart the chambers of consciousness ; they encounter 
frigid looks and sentiments of indifference in those they 
hold in high esteem, while aware that if the better 
self had been heeded, friendship would have been a 
natural result ; they see themselves in low and un- 
worthy positions, when by right of nature they were 
entitled to those of trust and honor ; finally, driven 
hither and thither by vacillation, vexed by self-reproach, 
and wishing to return to the work for which original 
endowments fitted them, they are compelled to ac- 
knowledge themselves disabled and incompetent. From 
this condition the only chance of release is in their 
mortification and shame, which are manifest proofs of 
vitality ; each pang, however severe, is but the endeavor 
of nature to cast forth the ignoble fear and inertia which 
have interfered with the perfect working of the soul's 
mechanism. From suffering may issue a resolution 
to enter upon a nobler career. But what is resolution ? 
Not a word, a promise, a feeling, a something tangible 
or debatable, but a concentration of the highest powers 
of the soul to accomplish a given purpose. Resolu- 
tions, "made" or "broken," are, in the ordinary sense, 
so familiar as to have fallen into contempt; as a mere? 



60 FINDING OUR LEVEL. 

form, they are indeed of no value and no one is the 
better or stronger for the making of them — on the 
contrary, a man is frequently enervated by a process 
which gradually comes to usurp the place of genuine, 
vigorous action. But, when it has become a reality, 
resolution is that state of moral enthusiasm in which 
a being does unflinchingly the behests of reason : the 
doing implies the resolution — without that doing, the 
thinking, planning, feeling, promising, and even suffer- 
ing, are worse than nothing. 

What a record, were the " resolutions" of a single 
generation gathered together and given us for inspec- 
tion ! And yet, spite of much discouraging testimony 
against the utility of resolutions, nature remains in- 
exorable and boldly asserts that each individual is 
endowed with strength to live up to his best convic- 
tions ; that whatever plea he may bring as an excuse 
for failure, is but clear evidence of his insincerity or 
cowardice. Difficulties there may be — but when did 
difficulty ever hold back mortals bent upon attaining 
their ends ? Is it not rather an incentive to all human 
undertakings ? 

While considering this subject, therefore, let us di- 
vest our minds of all cant, prejudice, and sophistry. 
Either we do or do not apprehend a thing : when we 
do, it is the shallowest hypocrisy not to act accord- 
ingly. Any kind of evil-doing acquires tenfold power 
for mischief when persisted in after the results have 
been clearly demonstrated. The mind apprehending, 
and the heart assenting, fitting action must inevitably 
follow, if there be honesty of purpose. Unhappily, 
people generally are not honest, not sincere, not brave, 
not enduring, not faithful, in matters pertaining to char- 



FINDING OUR LEVEL. 6 1 

acter. Falling back upon good intentions, general 
kindness, or high aspirations, they forget the un- 
changeable law which demands action as a concom- 
itant of thinking. 

What is better calculated to bring contempt upon re- 
ligion than the common spectacle of preaching charity 
and practicing intolerance, or of descanting upon the 
beauty of love and letting hate pour forth from every 
word and act ! To observe the ordinary course of 
mankind, it might be supposed that it is bent upon 
proving the incompatibility of reason and action. 
Nevertheless, to the honor of humanity be it said, 
there appears now and then a soul so faithful to its 
own ideal, so determined upon the great work of 
self-mastery, that we bow before it reverently and 
murmur: So should, so might it be in every other 
soul ! 

Resolution, to be effectual, must burn in the soul 
with a clear, steady flame, diffusing warmth and vitality 
through every thought, sentiment, and act. The most 
insignificant daily duty must be dignified with high 
motive, and bear the stamp of will ; the monotonous, 
irksome, or painful requirements of our lot must be 
cheerfully complied with and made healthful by keep- 
ing in sight the ultimate end of existence — develop- 
ment. Through a marvelous provision of nature, man 
is capable of embodying in action whatever the mind 
conceives ; the secret of acquiring power is using it. 
Neither wishing, nor hoping, nor whining, nor despair- 
ing, will avail aught where resolution is felt to be 
weak; only the simple doing — from hour to hour and 
from minute to minute — of the soul's prompting, will 
bring strength. Resolution admits of no conditions, 

6* 



62 FINDING OUR LEVEL. 

no compromises, no temporizing, no glossing over, no 
counterfeit, but exacts unqualified obedience as a right 

If a good resolution come to an erring human 
being, he must cling to it as to a jewel beyond all 
price, upon which life itself depends. However weak 
at the outset, it may, with tender care, develop into 
something stronger, something which will lift him up 
out of the moral misery in which he is now tossing. 
Let him do the right thing, however hard and dis- 
tasteful, however repulsive to natural tendencies, how- 
ever warring with acquired habits and evil surround- 
ings, — do it, as he hopes for peace and self-content. If 
he be a thinker, so much the more certain is the penalty 
for non-doing ; thinkers are the first to see moral un- 
faithfulness in themselves, their keen perceptions fur- 
nishing a ready clue to their own strange and incon- 
sistent conduct. They see at a glance why they do 
the things which to others appear entirely inexpli- 
cable, and how certain results are unavoidable, from 
causes that have long been at work. 

A moral nature out of joint cannot do the work it 
could when in a normal condition. Body, mind, and 
soul, are all subject to similar laws and all indissolubly 
connected. Mysteriously sympathetic, they work to- 
gether either harmoniously and beautifully, or jarringly 
and destructively; diffuse upon all that come under 
their influence, either light and comfort, or darkness 
and wretchedness. 

Amid the discords of an abnormal life — one im- 
mersed in artificial restraint, uncongenial occupation, 
or enervating sensuality — may come an occasional 
hour of peace, when the mind, released temporarily 
from its hateful thraldom, once more dares to aspire. 



FINDING OUR LEVEL. 



63 



Intensity of thought arising from discontent and cul- 
minating in determination, may so thrill the soul that 
all the minor details of life grow dim and unimportant, 
while the grand possibilities of art or science assume 
proportions greater than any heretofore conceived, and 
a desire for their development becomes irresistible. 



III- 

CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 



Our thoughts are the epochs in our lives : all else is but as a journal 
of the winds that blew while we were here. — Thoreau. 



If, as Carlyle expresses it, " the beginning of inquiry- 
is disease," the thing itself is nevertheless a proof of the 
truth contained in the optimist's creed : good in and 
out of every thing. Inquiry leads to reply, reply to dis- 
cussion, discussion to analysis, analysis to knowledge. 
Coleridge tells us that " the postulate of philosophy, 
and at the same time the test of philosophic capacity, 
is no other than the heaven-descended know thyself." 
Without this, the extraordinary brevity of life, as com- 
pared with the infinity of subjects presented for research, 
plunges the soul into an abyss of doubt and dissatis- 
faction. To discover, then, the realities which may 
lawfully claim our deepest interest should be deemed 
the highest of human occupations. Those that press 
most forcibly upon us are the human intellect, human 
passions, physical well-being, progress, and morality. 
To examine one of these realities without touching 
upon the others would be, of course, impossible; but, 
in ranking the intellect as "chief," it is only just to give 
it due precedence. 
64 



CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 6$ 

Men, no less than children, veil their deepest ex- 
periences, and only through close study of intellect 
in all its phases and under all conditions can we learn 
the immense power it becomes in the world's history. 

Here, the peasant stands upon an equality with the 
prince, and the thought uttered or the project con- 
ceived is judged, not by an artificial standard, but 
by its intrinsic value. Capable of the grandest as well 
as of the most ignominious results, ceaselessly occu- 
pied either for good or for evil, the miracle- we call 
intellect discloses all the possibilities which human 
life, under the highest and the lowest conditions, may 
develop. To discover what man is, sound his capacity 
and test his endurance, to lift him above the prejudices 
and follies of his generation, to arouse an irrepress- 
ible indignation against injustice and oppression, to 
generate intuitions which qualify one soul to read and 
commune with another soul, — such are some of the 
worthiest functions of this power. 

The idea of this as the grand centre of life's best 
endeavors, vitalizes the most ordinary events, and in- 
vests every object, thought, and impulse with keen 
interest ; the epoch which reveals to an individual the 
consciousness of possessing it, yields to no other in 
grandeur, intensity, and solid happiness. What else 
can compass the universe, fathom the mysteries of the 
soul, establish intercourse with the great of all ages, 
and cancel present losses through the contemplation 
of things unseen ? 

Next to existence itself, it is the gift which calls for 
the most fervent thanks and gratitude ; and one who 
had tasted all the sweets of life and was finally per- 
mitted to choose only one as an inheritance, would 



66 CHIEF AMONG IDEALITIES. 

unhesitatingly decide upon this as embodying the 
greatest amount of unalloyed satisfaction. 

Even when undisciplined and desultory in its action, 
incapable of any sustained effort which might conduce 
to the enlightenment or entertainment of the world, 
it is an exhaustless fund towards the elevation of the 
owner: with this in his control, no degree of mis- 
fortune or disappointment can ever plunge him into 
irremediable misery. 

Alluding to the effect of study, Walter Savage Lan- 
dor says : " The higher delights of the mind are very 
different in their effects from its seductive passions. 
These cease to gratify us the sooner we indulge in them. 
The earlier we indulge in thought and reflection, the 
longer do they last and the more faithfully do they 
serve us. So far are they from shortening our animal 
life that they prolong and strengthen it greatly. The 
body is as much in repose in the midst of high imagi- 
nation as in the midst of profound sleep." 

Numerous records of other thinkers bear testimony 
to this truth, and to the power of abstraction which 
may gradually be attained by fixing the mind upon 
elevating subjects : indeed, without the appreciative 
faculty which intellect alone can give, birth, wealth, 
social standing, fame, — even love itself, — are but empty 
honors or passing incidents. 

How much of energy and passion have been ab- 
sorbed by the past ? How much of the higher self 
does the present receive ? Of what do our aims for 
the future consist ? These are vital questions which 
intellect alone can answer. If once its keen edge be 
felt working its way into the very life, removing what 
is hurtful to make way for a sound and vigorous condi- 



CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 67 

tion, we cannot obstruct its course without incurring 
incalculable losses. Whatever it points out must 
become a law to the individual, even if it take him 
over heights where no other dare follow, or expose 
him to dangers never before encountered; and from 
those rare instances of entire self-abandonment to 
such pointing ensue the results called success, honor, 
and immortality. Remembering, too, that "intellectual 
inequality comes direct from God, and man cannot 
prevent its continual reappearance," we perceive that 
the grade of power accorded to each individual is of 
slight importance compared to that ardor for enlight- 
enment which impels men to forego every temporal 
advantage rather than lose the wonders and beauties 
which their special endowments qualify them to com- 
prehend and appreciate. 

The morbidness and discontent with which intel- 
lectual people are often reproached, have their source 
in an abnormal condition of the mind's forces, one in 
which events beyond control, personal negligence, or 
lack of will-power, have rendered those forces tem- 
porarily valueless. But, just as physical privation finds 
its compensation in the gratification of appetite; or as 
the convalescent, when once again permitted to breathe 
the pure air of heaven, feels as if in another state of 
existence, the delights of which had been unimagined, 
so, in the intellect, the condition called exaltation often 
follows mental unrest, and is one so replete with deep 
unfathomable joy, that he who has been vouchsafed 
even a partial experience will no longer marvel at the 
visions of mystics or at the dreams of poets. 

Not only is satisfaction compatible with mental 
activity, but, where the will is strong enough to pre- 



68 CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 

serve the equilibrium between thought and action, it 
is a certain result. That firmness of will which gives 
consistency to reflection, making it worthy to regulate 
conduct; which enables conception to be realized in 
form, and helps conscience to discriminate between 
justice to self and duty to others, is a force derived 
directly from intellect. 

Firmness is that bold touch of pencil or pen which 
brings out the idea with the definite expression that 
at once stamps it with character : it is that ingredient 
of human nature which adjusts, assimilates, and har- 
monizes conflicting powers, exacting respect even for 
mediocrity, and compelling superior endowments to 
be true to instinct and culture. 

With morality as the principle of action, the intel- 
lect may fearlessly be awarded full scope for experiment 
and adventure. Do not all earnest seekers after truth, 
those who dare to see, know, feel, suffer, and enjoy 
according to their own individuality, usually assimi- 
late on all of the great philosophical questions at 
issue? " How comes the mind to be furnished?" asks 
John Locke. " Whence has it all the materials of 
reason and knowledge ? From experience : in that 
all our knowledge is founded, and from that it ulti- 
mately derives itself." Of Joseph Priestley we are 
told that " he was a follower of the truth who de- 
lighted in the chase, and was all his life-long pursuing 
it, not resting in it." 

Of Socrates, Mr. Grote says : " For him, as well 
as for Plato, the search after truth counted as the 
main business of life. The declaration so often made 
by Socrates, that he is a searcher, not a teacher, that 
he feels doubts keenly himself and can impress them 



CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 69 

upon others, but cannot discover any good solution of 
them, — this declaration, which is usually considered 
mere irony, is literally true." 

" La curiosite est la maladie de l'esprit humain," 
writes Voltaire to Madame du Deffand. "But," he 
continues, " I have at least the consolation of seeing 
that all the system-makers know nothing more than 
myself. The difference between us is, they want to 
be regarded as superior beings, while I do not : I 
frankly avow my ignorance. Moreover, in the search 
for knowledge, however vain it may be, there is one 
great advantage. The study of things which are far 
above us, renders the interests of this world very 
small in our eyes ; and when we have the pleasure of 
losing ourselves in Immensity, we do not trouble our- 
selves about what goes on in the streets of Paris. 
Study has this great good, it makes us live peaceably 
with ourselves, delivers us from the burden of our 
idleness, and prevents us from running from one end 
of the town to another pour dire et ecouter des riens." 
Intellectual research conducts to development even 
when apparently leading astray. As question after 
question arises, it must be grappled with until, by dint 
of personal prowess, its worth or worthlessness, as 
regards our aim, is tested. And in such conflicts, not 
what other men think of our vigor and training, but 
what we ourselves think of it, should be the one press- 
ing anxiety. 

Each question, book, incident, or emotion, can be of 
use only for a limited time; hence, from the shallow 
and unreflecting arise charges of inconsistency, fickle- 
ness, and immorality against mental experimenters 
and discoverers. Dangerous it may be to plunge 



jO CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 

into all the mysteries of which intellect gives cog- 
nizance ; but, dangerous or not, in no other way can 
knowledge be acquired. That many a fall and bruise 
must be endured, many disagreeable objects encoun- 
tered, many dark enigmas pondered, is unhesitatingly 
admitted ; but, as compared with a narrow restriction, 
the ultimate gain from extensive research is beyond 
computation. 

" What is the hardest task in the world ? To think." 
Thus asks and replies Emerson, himself one of the 
world's greatest thinkers. " Pursue your studies in 
the way your conscience calls honest," says Carlyle. 
" More and more endeavor to do that. Keep, I mean 
to say, an accurate separation between what you have 
really come to know in your own mind, and what is 
still unknown. Leave all that on the hypothetical side 
of the barrier as things afterwards to be acquired, if ac- 
quired at all ; and be careful not to stamp a thing as 
known when you do not yet know it. Count a thing 
known only when it is stamped on your mind so 
that you may survey it on all sides with intelligence. 
Gradually see what kind of work you can do ; for it 
is the first of all problems, for a man to find out what 
kind of work he is to do in this universe. In fact, 
morality as regards study is, as in all other things, 
the primary consideration, and overrides all others. 
A dishonest man cannot do any thing real; and it 
would be greatly better if he were tied up from doing 
any such thing." Have not many of us learned that 
this dishonesty, of doing things for which we are 
unfitted, deteriorates our mental ability, and fills us 
with a miserable sense of the flatness and nothingness 
of life ? Doing things will never make us like them, or 



CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 7 1 

enable us to put the best self into them : the soul re- 
mains the same whatever restraints are imposed upon 
it, although it chafes under unjust discipline, and grows 
sullen and morose. In vain do we strive to overcome 
nature, and force ourselves to act in opposition to her 
voice ! In vain are our most cherished wishes and plans 
given up for the sake of appearing like the rest of the 
world ! When our aim — as regards thus "appearing" 
— has been achieved, what then ? We become some- 
thing we ourselves cannot respect, and which others, 
if people of character, must despise. To learn how to 
think should be the primal object of every being's life, 
while the second should be to utilize the results of 
that thinking. 

In the early stages of intellectual life, revery — well 
called " la pensee a l'etat de nebuleuse" — frequently 
seems a state so replete with idleness, that a consci- 
entious soul frets itself continually and resorts to 
all manner of expedients to escape from that so- 
deemed temptation. But, upon the principle that 
preparation for work is the indispensable adjunct of 
ability, the impulse that drives men from the world to 
the solitude of the sea, forest, or mountain, is one to 
be obeyed rather than stifled. In the neophyte, ignor- 
ance or fear may obscure the significance of such a 
call, and thus cause an irreparable loss of opportunity 
and inspiration. 

To some natures solitude is a joyous holiday, in 
which the soul is re-created and fitted to resume toil in 
the crowded mart of human activity with augmented 
zeal and efficiency. To forget and to be forgotten, 
to seek uninterrupted communion with reason and 
imagination, and to be permitted to embody the re- 



72 



CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 



suits conformably to natural gifts — such, while in soli- 
tude, is the craving of every being in whom the intel- 
lectual element predominates. 

Whoever is thus capable of communing with nature, 
prays, not for more light, but for power to bear all 
that comes streaming in. The usual course of a liter- 
ary life begins with reading, follows with thinking, 
and ends with writing; and, that man's best legacy 
to man is the written history of the intellect's power 
and creations, is granted by the world's master- 
minds. 

Schiller writes to the sisters Lengefeld : " I am glad 
you remain faithful to Plutarch, for he lifts us above 
this insipid generation and makes us contemporaries 
of a better and stronger kind of humanity." To the 
influence of this ancient writer Alfieri likewise bears 
generous testimony. After referring to Rousseau and 
Montesquieu — the latter he " read twice from beginning 
to end, with wonder and delight, perhaps with some 
utility" — he exclaims : " But the book of books was 
Plutarch." Again, he says he found himself " for the 
third or fourth time in Plutarch and Montaigne." Of 
Plato, Emerson says : " Why should not our young 
men be educated on this book ? It would suffice for 
the tuition of the race, — to test their understanding 
and to express their reason. Here is that which is so 
attractive to all men, — the literature of aristocracy, 
shall I call it? — the picture of the best persons, senti- 
ments, and manners, by the first master, in the best 
times, — portraits of Pericles, Alcibiades, Crito, Pro- 
dicus, Protagoras, Anaxagoras, and Socrates, with 
the lovely background of the Athenian and suburban 
landscape. Or, who can overestimate the images with 



CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 73 

which Plato has enriched the minds of men, and which 
pass like bullion in the currency of all nations?" 

For the well-prepared traveler, literature offers a 
realm of unlimited exploration, discovery, and diversi- 
fied enjoyment. The majority, however, are wholly 
devoid of preparatory discipline, and, when finally 
started upon their travels, marvel greatly at the pre- 
ponderance of fatigue and ennui, when, from the 
laudatory descriptions of others, they had been led to 
expect an infinite variety of delightful experiences. 
Books are living realities before which all other tan- 
gible objects sink into insignificance, which at every 
stage delight the soul, and in periods of inward tumult 
or outward calamity exercise an incalculable influence 
in sustaining and elevating it. Without them we should 
never know those complex inner springs of action, the 
comprehending and directing of which produce the 
very life of life. With what a sensation of surprise 
we often come upon thoughts, doubts, and difficulties, 
which we had supposed existed only in the recesses 
of our own being ! 

The nearest of earthly friends cannot teach us the 
truths we learn from books ; neither can any external 
condition of well-being yield that calm, sweet joy 
which arises from complete harmony with an author's 
thoughts and aims. 

" In Books," says Carlyle, " lies the Soul of the whole 
Past Time : the articulate, audible voice of the Past, 
when the body and material substance of it has alto- 
gether vanished like a dream. All that Mankind has 
done, thought, gained, or been : it is lying as in magic 
preservation in the pages of Books." Books affect 
us precisely like people, and either interest, or bore, 

7* 



74 CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 

warm, freeze, depress, exhilarate, fatigue, or rest us. In 
the company of those people whose minds are attuned 
to our own there is never a feeling of discomfort or 
that mental uneasiness arising from a sense of being 
watched, wondered at, ridiculed, or despised. The same 
is observed of books that suit our mood and tempera- 
ment. Reading, like every thing else, needs an impetus : 
if entered upon reluctantly, no labor is more fatiguing; 
if undertaken philosophically, agreeably to natural 
tastes and inclinations, nothing is more refreshing and 
inspiriting. In vain does a man say to himself, " Such 
and such books ought to be read," and forthwith 
proceed to cram his mind with food for which there 
is neither appetite nor power of assimilation. Even 
with desire and appetite, we cannot pluck all the bril- 
liant flowers we see, or taste every luscious fruit that 
tempts the palate; and he who tries to read every thing 
ends by enjoying nothing, and losing whatever of self- 
poise his mind originally possessed. 

" Knowledge," says Carlyle, " depends on what we 
read after all manner of Professors have done their 
best for us. The true University of these days is a 
Collection of Books." But if knowledge of any kind 
is to have a beneficial effect, there must be spontaneity, 
eagerness, and enthusiasm in the acquisition. To 
state dogmatically what men should or should not 
read would be as futile as to dictate their pursuits or 
amusements. Languid when not interested, animated 
and tenacious when experiencing a desire for informa- 
tion, the mind speaks very plainly as to its needs and 
conditions. 

As, in material existence, all manner of ability and 
character are requisite to furnish food, raiment, and 



CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 75 

luxury, so, in the life of intellect, an immense variety 
of books is needed to satisfy a large community. Re- 
ligion, art, commerce, and belles-lettres — all must have 
their distinctive priests and votaries, whose ability and 
zeal decide the progress of their respective interests. 

The proof that a book is good for a man is the 
degree of activity it awakens in subjects sanctioned 
by his highest meditations. To be saturated with it, 
to feel his soul stirred to its depths by the earnestness 
of another soul, is a satisfactory assurance that for the 
time being his choice is a wise one. Under lower 
conditions, reading is but a stimulant or a restorative, 
and to be sparingly used. 

A writer may have a world-wide fame, and yet be 
no inspirer for us : but from the multitude of ancient 
and modern authors within reach we can readily single 
out those who can minister to our highest wants and 
yield us the best companionship. " Nothing seems 
to me good," says Voltaire, " unless it can be re-read 
without disgust. The only good books of this kind 
are those which continually offer something to the 
imagination and flatter the ear by harmony. Men 
need music and painting, with sundry little philo- 
sophical precepts judiciously dropped here and there. 
This is why Horace, Virgil, and Ovid will always 
please, except in translations which spoil them." 
Whether a work of fiction will or will not stand the 
test of centuries is a question of far less importance 
than its actual effect upon the living men and women 
about us. That it is a means of instruction and enter- 
tainment extending into regions of heart and mind 
where no other would find access, none will dispute. 
Fiction, wielded by a master-hand, is an exponent of 



;6 CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 

good language, good manners, and good morals. It 
portrays not only the outward affairs of men, but pene- 
trates to their inner lives to learn how they think, feel, 
and act, in their respective spheres; it studies and 
analyzes thus not from motives of idle curiosity, but 
from a desire to know human nature as it is, or as, 
under different conditions, it might be. It awakens a 
love of nature and that interest in science which in- 
variably follows that love ; engenders an appreciation 
of esthetic qualities and a desire for personal improve- 
ment which otherwise might remain wholly unknown. 
That the aim often fails of realization, none knows 
better, perhaps, than the author himself. But if — as 
often happens — what appears failure to the artist-mind 
bent on perfection, proves eventually of actual benefit to 
either contemporaries or posterity, the inference must 
serve as an incentive to those now laboring in this de- 
partment. That passion in the guise of fiction often 
acts like wine upon a warm imagination, causing it, 
while under the spell, to lose all sense of unreality, and 
to be irresistibly carried away by the narrative even 
when reason pronounces it an inferior production, is a 
proof of the power of this agency as a means of educa- 
tion. While glancing at this point, we cannot but per- 
ceive the injustice of identifying an author with his 
works; for nothing is easier to a writer of imaginative 
power than to describe' passion, crime, and remorse, 
— to transform himself temporarily into the hero of 
his story. 

What, among visible things, can compare in beauty 
with the poet's dream ? What more real than the ideal- 
ity which enables him to tolerate an intolerable present, 
derive sustenance from a happy past, or revel in the 



CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 77 

prospect of a possible future ! And those exquisite 
structures which imagination erects in prose or verse, 
are, to appreciative minds, worth far more than those 
material ones of stone or marble which exact so large 
a tribute from human energy. 

What De Tocqueville says of the American charac- 
ter would apply to a large class of readers : " Why, 
amid their great prosperity, are the Americans so rest- 
less ? I have seen men of enlightened minds and living 
in independent circumstances, whose countenances 
yet seemed habitually clouded. Even in their pleas- 
ures they were grave, almost sad. He who has set 
his heart exclusively upon worldly goods is always 
hurried, because he has no time limited for finding, 
acquiring, or enjoying them. The consciousness of 
the brevity of life continually weighs upon him, and, 
independently of the goods already in his possession, 
he is continually imagining a thousand others which, 
unless he hasten, death will prevent him from tasting. 
Regret, fear, and anxiety ensue from this source and 
throw him into a trepidation which leads him to seek 
continual change both of place and design." 

A similar anxiety may be observed in the undis- 
ciplined reader, who, with the amplest means of grati- 
fication, is, nevertheless, far from feeling content. The 
thought of what he wishes to accomplish is so much 
beyond his capacity that alternate haste and disap- 
pointment cause him to lose the best fruits of his 
intellectual passion. Those who are absorbed in the 
pursuit of art, music, or science, say that society is 
allowable only when their innate forces are wearied 
with long-continued application. The same test ap- 
plied to books would make a new one desirable only 



78 CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 

when all the ideas and sentiments generated by the 
previous one have been pondered over and assimilated. 

There are many who tell us, however, that it is 
not easy to regulate a literary appetite, one that has a 
keen relish of every thing fresh, piquant, and original ; 
to acquire the power of self-control without impairing 
natural susceptibility. 

To an ardent, sympathetic mind, the most insig- 
nificant person or the most trivial object is enough 
to inspire the interest which leads to thought: if 
there be nothing in the person or thing, the very lack 
is suggestive. Hence, the temptations accruing from 
a multitude of books can easily be imagined. Every 
name mentioned, every event described, opinion ad- 
vanced, or theory advocated, urges the student on to 
new researches. 

And through a certain number of years there must 
needs be a vast amount of such gratification. But, 
when the mind is found to be well impregnated, there 
must be a cessation of the absorbing process and an 
inauguration of abstinence, the method which more 
than any other will invigorate the powers of reflec- 
tion and creation. Whatever diverts thought from the 
object under consideration must be regarded in the 
light of indulgence, and unhesitatingly abandoned. An 
idea conceived should be left calm and undisturbed, 
and presently the result will come in the shape of 
augmented strength, clearer views, or more brilliant 
fancies. 

Released from external hindrances, the natural char- 
acter of the mind declares itself, and steps forward 
into its legitimate place, ready for its functions and 
responsibilities. 



CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 79 

To a warm, passionate nature with a mind so alive 
to its own capabilities that every moment of existence 
brings either keen pleasure or keen pain, expression 
of some kind becomes a necessity so absolute that life 
and death may be said to depend upon it. 

The intensity of suffering endured by a man of 
poetic temperament compelled to forego all his cher- 
ished convictions and congenial pursuits for the sake 
of worldly considerations, — those multifarious triviali- 
ties which constitute the daily acceptable nourishment 
of the mass of mankind, but which to the exceptional 
soul are a hateful incubus, — can be comprehended only 
by one of like endowment. Can there indeed be any 
position more absurd and unreasonable, than to as- 
sume that a soul, quivering with sensibility and con- 
scious of content only when employing its faculties in 
the highest realms of meditation, could be patient 
when thrown amid scenes in which every object be- 
held or every sound heard is a protest against self- 
consciousness ? A poet is not a man of the world, 
and any attempt to fuse two such incompatible ele- 
ments must inevitably end in failure. 

The poet loves solitude, dreamy musings, lofty 
soarings, contemplation of nature, analysis of human 
actions and motives. Companionship, in his estima- 
tion, is that soul-alliance which, in real life, occurs at 
such rare intervals that it is almost synonymous with 
solitude. 

Under any other conditions, men and women are to 
him, not companions, but merely instruments in the 
great human economy, creatures who alternately ex- 
cite admiration, contempt, curiosity, and compassion. 
Willing to sacrifice himself at any moment for them, 



8o CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 

if thereby he can assist the needy, whether in body or 
mind, he is prompted to keep aloof from all who are 
gay and prosperous. When sacrifices will neither 
propitiate the gods, nor bring peace of mind to the 
sacrificer, is not the act a manifest waste of vitality ? 

A man of the world hates solitude, and desires 
nothing more earnestly than to escape a condition 
which confronts him with meditation, retrospection, 
or imagination. For him, life means activity — seeing, 
hearing, doing, giving, taking — and he involuntarily 
looks with contempt upon the shiftless visionary who 
values ideas more than bank-notes, and glories in a 
lifetime of search for them. To such a man, ex- 
emption from the world's pursuits and its prizes means 
an ostracism which he can neither bear himself nor 
patiently see other men bear. 

Undoubtedly, death would often be a welcome re- 
lease to many a mortal writhing under the agony of 
disappointment, mortification, or remorse. But death 
will not come for the wishing; and by a merciful dis- 
pensation, means of escape for passion are offered not 
only through music, art, and literature, but also through 
the countless channels of activity which human needs 
create. Happiness is not inventive, but passive ; and 
if men's wishes were invariably gratified, degenera- 
tion of mind and body would speedily ensue. Para- 
doxical as it sounds, human history demonstrates 
most clearly that men must be driven to their best 
conceptions, forced away from their ambitious pro- 
jects or sweet joys to the work for which their talents 
fit them. 

Who that possesses a strong, passionate soul, liable 
to be inflamed by a word, a look, or a thought, does 



CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 8 1 

not seek a vent in expression and know the relief it 
yields ? In vain does this passionate soul cry : The 
world is naught for me ! I despise its prizes ! My 
art or my work is enough ! Friendship, love, ambi- 
tion, all these are but illusions, unworthy the rever- 
ence they exact ! 

None can escape the conditions of humanity: and in 
proportion to intellect and sensibility do we feel the 
penalties attaching to human nature thus endowed and 
thus exposed. Reason, philosophy, poetry — what 
grand developments do they not make to heart and 
mind ! What exhaustless resources for blighted hopes 
and uncongenial surroundings ! And yet no mortal — if 
not an absolute hermit — can escape occasional shocks 
to pride, feeling, or desire, shocks which throw him 
into utter wretchedness, and make him long for escape 
by death if there be no other means. 

How can I live, is his innermost cry, if the nourish- 
ment my nature most needs be perpetually denied? 
Why must I endure this unending recurrence of 
irksome tasks and thankless duties, if what is really 
pure and true in me be ever misunderstood and 
repelled ? The sensibility which takes the form of 
introspection is probably the severest test of patient 
endurance of existence that can be imagined. Especi- 
ally is this the case when the heart craves companion- 
ship and finds only fellow-creatures ; or finds com- 
panionship only to be falsely judged by those whom 
it has chosen above all others as worthy of its attach- 
ment. If introspection be one of those attributes 
which make the poet, it is undoubtedly also a cause 
of unspeakable suffering to its unfortunate possessor. 
For it shows him not only the blemishes and short- 



82 CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 

comings of his own nature, but likewise the ugly light 
in which they must appear to those few whom he 
most wishes to please. It shows him those facts 
which foretell disastrous failure where happiness is 
most at stake ; seeing which, there comes over his 
soul that sickening sense of utter unfitness for social 
life which often results in so-called misanthropy and 
cold-heartedness. 

Thus realizing, with a bitterness of spirit which only 
a like temperament can comprehend, this utter unfit- 
ness, it is not to be wondered at that solitude event- 
ually becomes the sole condition in which peace of 
mind is attained. There, at least, meditation may 
take the forms of beauty and grace which imagina- 
tion suggests, without danger of being rudely jostled 
or cruelly rebuffed; there the mind may gradually 
attain that serenity which in the world seemed wholly 
unattainable. Ought not we to shun those ordeals 
which we know will prove too severe for our warmth 
of feeling or our desire for approbation ? 

Expression then is the only hope of escape from 
passion or mental despair, and it matters little what 
the particular form be, whether music, art, literature, 
or mechanical labor. 

Endowed with power to grasp in a single instant 
of time what demands years of unceasing toil to depict 
— even partially — with the pen, the mind cannot but 
regard written language as tame and spiritless com- 
pared to the reality within. 

Earth can never satisfy that which has its origin in 
eternity; but those who are ever striving after although 
never reaching their ideal of excellence, may find com- 
fort in the truth that ideality makes self-content im- 



CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 83 

possible. However crude and worthless our ideas, 
fancies, and sentiments may seem, they should receive 
the best embodiment labor can produce. Each human 
mind is, through endowment and culture, different 
from every other that has ever existed : consequently, 
however numerous the veterans and aspirants already 
in the field of literature, there need be no hesitancy 
on the part of those impelled to try their strength. 
Among all who present themselves there are few, 
even among those truly gifted, who win success and 
fame; least of all, probably, those who stake their 
happiness upon those prizes. 

However unaccountable an impulse may be, it 
means more than can be seen or touched ; and only 
when the obstacles which prevent its transformation 
into deed are valiantly overcome, do we begin to 
have a glimmering of nature's intention. 

But, cry our teachers, men are constantly mistaking 
falsehood for truth, folly for wisdom, injustice for jus- 
tice, cruelty for kindness! Very true; but, inasmuch 
as these mistakes are possible to all, each man may 
well claim the right to trust his own impulse as much 
as another man's. Only after such an impulse has 
been followed can the delight of living in the bracing 
air of mental freedom and viewing the universe with 
unbandaged eyes be experienced. 

Usually, the body submits to far more coercion than 
the mind, and men grow so accustomed to acting the 
part assigned them by circumstances, that they learn 
to adjust countenance and manner like the dress, 
one day for a feast, another for a funeral. But when 
restraint is brought to bear too persistently upon the 
mind, it is liable to rebel and take revenge by bring- 



84 CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 

ing forth inanities or stirring up seditions in those 
provinces of the human organization which are none 
the less dangerous because obscure. 

To compose, for instance, when not in the mood, 
is like laughing when the heart is sad, running 
when the feet are weary, talking when silence is 
craved. But to write when moved by that burning 
impulse which breaks through all forms, and neither 
calculates, nor ceases until its object is gained, is 
to know a satisfaction which few other pursuits can 
yield. 

Literary records prove that the m ost perfect speci- 
mens of composition have been produced, not by the 
most thorough masters of philology, but by those who 
knew nothing of its laws and intricacies, and simply 
followed the bent of their own genius. Many cele- 
brated works of history or of fiction were originally 
written in desultory fragments or chapters, with no 
thought of publication. In a sensitive temperament 
the deliberate intention of writing a book would at 
once deaden imagination and paralyze the reason. 
For the acquisition of executive skill, there must, un- 
doubtedly, be daily fervent application to composition; 
but as for purpose and plan, these must be left to that 
inner force which is stronger than either will or inten- 
tion — inspiration. Every writer, as has often been 
remarked, must adopt his own way of working— must, 
in a certain sense, create it. Hence, it matters little 
when or how a book is begun, if only the desired 
result be attained. 

However peculiar the idiosyncrasies of an intellect, 
they may be made available by indulging and ulti- 
mately controlling them. That natural force should 



CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 85 

have unrestrained action is the first essential of good 
writing : facts, thoughts, sentiments, observations, 
passions, and fancies, all should in some shape find 
reproduction in language. Originality, creation, and 
clearness should be the first care, arrangement and 
detail the second. An excess of plans and experi- 
ments can end only in irretrievable failure ; and the 
tendency — generally an attribute of vivid imagination 
— may best be combated by bearing in mind the im- 
portant fact that human life, at the longest, is limited 
to a few years of maturity and vigor. 

Without the ideality which points out possibilities, 
and firmness to give them substantial form, intellectual 
activity becomes a troublesome burden, which anni- 
hilates present comfort without providing adequate 
indemnification. Moreover, those qualities which with 
concentration would enable the mind to master its 
subject, without that faculty tend only to keep it in a 
state of chronic chagrin. Literary people are just as 
liberally endowed with human weaknesses as any other 
class. Life is short, they argue ; comfort is dear to the 
body, and pleasure sweet. Why strive to be or to do 
better than our neighbors ? 

The majority, therefore, act upon this principle, 
doing as much as will bring bread or popularity, and 
striving to amuse rather than to elevate the multitude. 
Even the minority, who derive motive power from 
within instead of from without, are continually meet- 
ing difficulties which mar effort and chill enthusiasm. 
There come hours when the mind refuses to work, 
and a writer must learn to exercise a patient tolerance 
with these leaden moods. What to do with these 
inferior hours is a question of vital importance; and 

8* 



S6 CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 

a calm examination of the subject may prevent the 
alarm or despair which arises from a suspension of 
writing-power. 

When the rapport between body and mind has been 
disturbed, meditation and composition are as impos- 
sible as if the ability had never existed. But the psy- 
chological student who knows the recuperative power 
of the brain learns to endure temporary losses with 
the philosophy of the traveler who, although greatly 
embarrassed by detentions on the road, is not thereby 
deterred from seeking his destination. 

In many cases, however, were we honest and open, 
we might account for many of these moods. Can we 
not tell precisely the state of mind or feeling which 
will be produced by doing a certain thing? May we 
not know what it is to be firm in principle, have a 
thorough appreciation of what is needful for our own 
equanimity of mind, and yet be so easily led astray by 
impulse or habit that we lose many valuable days by 
moods thus generated? The resources of the soul 
may be well known, and yet, like all other knowledge, 
prove only a source of vexation, if not put to definite 
use. All the world may lie at our. feet, and still bring 
no sense of satisfaction so long as we are conscious of 
being far below our standard of life. In composing, 
moods should be as carefully watched and as tenderly 
dealt with as ability itself: if we neglect them, we pay 
the penalty of our folly by losing altogether what before 
offered itself so freely. 

Nature must be taken as she is, not tied down to any 
fixed time, rule, or worldly convenience ; and, failing 
so to take her, we receive the most mortifying rebuffs 
when, to suit our own pleasure or convenience, we 



CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 87 

act contrary to her expressed wishes. The thoughts 
which at one hour could be written with fluency and 
delight, at another refuse to come at the most earnest 
solicitation. The mind in the first instance was 
warmed, full, eager for expression, while afterwards, 
other things having crowded upon and fatigued it, 
emptiness and coldness only are found there. Even 
upon trying to recall what before was so vivid, we 
receive only a dim and unsatisfactory reflection from 
which we turn away with impatience and disdain. 
True, there are those who tell us, in a somewhat con- 
temptuous tone, that the " moods" or frames of mind 
people talk about are nothing more than results of 
the physical condition, the unhappy ones, of course, 
being simply symptoms of indisposition more or less 
grave, and that each individual then acts according to 
temperament. One immediately calls in a physician, 
while another stoutly resists the idea of illness, drag- 
ging himself through weeks or months of the ordinary 
routine, tormenting himself meanwhile with vain specu- 
lations or psychological analysis. 

While ready enough to acknowledge the obvious 
fact that much depends upon the condition of the 
body, and that self-observation, if not tempered by 
health .and balanced by judgment, becomes a source 
of unhappiness, we may, nevertheless, question whether 
moods are indeed wholly dependent upon physical 
well- or ill-being. 

The soul is susceptible of indisposition no less than 
the body, and often suffers acutely while its com- 
panion is in admirable condition ; there may, too, be 
a strong, healthy soul encased in a weak, imperfect 
body, but showing in every hour of existence that it 



88 CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 

can produce work which exacts the world's tribute of 
respect and admiration. 

What a difference in souls we meet! Some show 
so little evidence of their divine origin that they live 
through their earthly term without struggle or in- 
quietude, content to perform the duties pointed out to 
them by others, and to be thus spared the trouble of 
thinking for themselves. Others, filled with soul-fire 
caught from Heaven, are consumed with unutterable 
longings and aspirations. What a rare instrument is 
this thing we call soul ! of what sweet music is it not 
capable, of what harsh and discordant sounds! Trem- 
blingly alive to every outward influence, continually 
urged to new endeavors, ardent, sensitive, loving, — 
and yet unstable, — it is capable of producing both 
intense delight and absolute woe ! How shall we 
preserve this instrument in all its delicacy and 
power? How play upon every chord and yet not 
do it injury? How permit it to be acted upon by 
every influence of earth, air, and heaven, while still 
enabling it to retain its pristine strength ? For this, 
there is but one precaution, one hope, one safeguard ; 
one source of power inexhaustible to instruct, guide, 
assuage, and heal ; one support upon which man can 
rest : we call it conscience. 

Save in those rare instances where early training 
has been propitious, the development of literary as- 
pirants results from a series of struggles. With the 
first inklings of composition the novice is awakened 
to a possession heretofore only thought of in relation 
to other people. The vague discontent which in past 
years was a source of so much self-reproach and an- 
noyance to others because interfering with practical 



CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 89 

life, is looked back upon as a foreshadowing of the 
literary career now opening. With a high resolve at 
once to redeem past losses, the embryo author begins 
to put thoughts into words. The desire waxes 
stronger and stronger with each new attempt, and 
with thrills of pleasure at the sensations which so 
enhance the value of life, he fancies that the path 
is now clear, and that naught remains but to let the 
stream of thought flow unrestrainedly. 

Presently, however, a reaction sets in, and the 
sturdy fact becomes apparent that mere emotion or 
resolve can never compete with preparation and ex- 
perience. Ignorant, impatient, undisciplined, he sees 
month follow month, year follow year, leaving no 
result save a profound sense of chagrin at the miser- 
able failure of his ardent wishes : untrained for the 
practical duties of his new position, and bewildered 
by the mass of subjects presented to reason and 
imagination, he is constantly losing time with im- 
possible projects and futile experiments. Instead of 
recognizing a multitude of ideas, theories, and im- 
pulses as indications of vitality, he is depressed by 
realizing the labor essential for bringing order out of 
chaos. When reduced sufficiently low by oft-repeated 
humiliations, a dim consciousness of better things 
steals over his being ; he finds that aspiration and 
hope are not crushed, but have simply been taught 
whereon they may build with security. Old, time- 
worn lessons upon patience, industry, and persever- 
ance come to mind with the now added force of 
conviction, and place before it the choice of self-con- 
secration or defeat. At this crisis, character steps in 
to determine whether talents are to be buried or 



go CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 

utilized, and the individual realizes that he need not 
look beyond himself for the strength that conquers. 

Strive as he may to shift the responsibility of his 
career to other shoulders, judgment will justly be 
pronounced against him if he fail to stamp it with 
honorable results. An author cannot write what 
he wills, but only what already exists in his own 
mind : consequently, he need have no anxiety as to 
popularity or distinction, but simply as to the zeal 
with which he is interpreting the language of his 
soul. 

"There is no greatness in active life," says Sir 
James Mackintosh, "without originality; no success 
in study without decision. Originality can hardly 
exist without vigour of character, since no man can 
invent or discover, without the power of resisting the 
temptations, and overcoming the obstacles which pre- 
vent intense and continued thought. The discoverer 
or inventor may, indeed, be most eminently wanting 
in decision in the general concerns of life, but he 
must possess it in those pursuits in which he is suc- 
cessful." The history of the greatest minds, while 
calculated to kindle whatever of latent fire may exist 
in our own, teaches how strenuous must be the self- 
denial and how persistent the industry which produce 
any worthy fruits ; likewise, how large a portion of even 
the best cared-for mental estate must, through causes 
unavoidable, remain for ever undeveloped. Loath as 
we are to believe in such an apparently cruel statute, 
many cases prove that the germ of greatness lies in 
suffering. 

Adversity in any of its varied forms, and, finally, 
soul-isolation, yield the rude but indispensable dis- 



CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 9 I 

cipline which precedes moral or intellectual force ; 
and to reason, the ugly fact gradually assumes fair 
proportions. 

Who, amid the ease and luxury of a favored social 
position, appealed to by the allurements of wealth, 
flattery, and vanity, could find strength to resist such 
influences and devote himself exclusively to science ? 
Who, while permitted to linger in the fair fields of 
love, could voluntarily leave the sunshine and the 
fragrance of that enchanted region for the purpose of 
portraying its beauties ? 

Personal comfort and happiness are so earnestly 
sought by man, that so long as he finds gratification 
in his immediate surroundings, whether in nature, art, 
home, or society, he will rarely be led into abstract 
research or experiment. Only when the visible and 
the tangible fail him, is he driven into that labyrinth 
called self, and enabled to comprehend its mysteries. 

Here he learns that aspiration is not a pretence, a 
shadow, a vision to be seen with the mind's eye only 
and never grasped : but that it is something as sub- 
stantial as life itself, and to be recognized by the 
state of the mind in its highest moments. Then, like 
a gleam from the realms of ideality it flashes and 
illumines, revealing his ultimate destiny and urging 
him by every hope of present or future peace to 
choose the best of human possibilities. To awaken 
intellectual enthusiasm in the mass would be impos- 
sible — the mere attempt a grievous waste of mortal 
strength and divine fire : but to touch the few who 
are capable of receiving and promulgating wisdom, 
is the glorious task intrusted to genius. Having its 
source in an element more impalpable than the atmos- 



9 2 CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 

phere, more swift than light, more enigmatical than 
growth, its manifestations are naturally regarded by 
the world with contempt. 

"Dreamer," "rhapsodist," "fanatic," are the epithets 
commonly used to designate those who, in obedience 
to nature's command, are willing to lose social caste 
rather than lose themselves. 

Genius is not the product of circumstances, but of 
that indomitable spirit within the man which impels 
him to noble thought and action, and renders him 
impervious to the taunts of ridicule or the sneers of 
incredulity. 

It asks no questions, harbors no doubts, yields not 
an iota to custom, exempts no class, despises no 
means, solicits no favors, waits not for permission ! 

It is the fountain-head of reform, philanthropy, 
science, and philosophy, and in every age decides the 
destinies of nations. More sure of itself than of any 
other fact that comes under its cognizance, it renders 
unqualified obedience to the faintest whisper of in- 
spiration, and in pursuance of its object yields to no 
obstacles less than the calls of humanity or physical 
exhaustion. 

"'Whoever hesitates to utter that which he thinks 
the highest truth, lest it should be too much in ad- 
vance of the time," says Herbert Spencer, " may 
reassure himself by looking at his acts from an im- 
personal point of view. Let him duly realize the fact 
that opinion is the agency through which character 
adapts external arrangements to itself — that his opin- 
ion rightly forms part of this agency — is a unit of 
force, constituting, with such other units, the general 
power which works out social changes ; and he will 



CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 



93 



perceive that he may properly give full utterance to 
his innermost conviction, leaving it to produce what 
effect it may. It is not for nothing that he has those 
sympathies with some principles, and repugnance to 
others. 

" He, with all his capacities, and aspirations, and 
beliefs, is not an accident, but a product of the time. 
He must remember that while he is a descendant of 
the past, he is a parent of the future ; and that his 
thoughts are as children born to him, whom he can- 
not carelessly let die. He, like every other man, 
may properly consider himself as one of the myriad 
agencies through whom works the Unknown Cause ; 
and when the Unknown Cause produces in him a cer- 
tain belief, he is thereby authorized to profess and act 
out that belief. Not as adventitious, therefore, will 
the wise man regard the faith that is in him. The 
highest truth he sees, he will fearlessly utter ; know- 
ing that let what may come of it, he is thus playing 
his right part in the world — knowing that if he can 
effect the change he aims at — well ; if not — well also : 
though not so well." 

Could any thing be more encouraging to the young 
author than such sentiments as these ! Upon first 
meeting them they seem strangely familiar, almost as 
if he himself had expressed them in some portion of 
his scribblings : he is the better for hearing these 
brave words, however, and is encouraged to value the 
thoughts that come, and to strive to give them ex- 
pression, even when still undecided as to the ultimate 
form in which they are to be given to the world. 

Of all forms of genius none is equal in power to that 
of the intellect, and he who suspects it in himself may 

9 



94 CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 

well withdraw from ordinary avocations and diver- 
sions: years of struggle, it is true, frequently bear wit- 
ness to the difficulty of liberating inspiration from 
worldliness, but this once effected, no barrier can pre- 
vent the full development and subsequent consecration 
of the rare gift. 

Mirabeau tells us that " we know by our own ex- 
perience that activity and resolution are capable of 
surmounting almost all difficulties through that very 
boldness which inspires the attempt ; while the hesi- 
tation and pusillanimity which cool our ardor at the 
sight of obstacles, troubles, and dangers, actually 
create the impossibility dreaded." 

Where genius really exists, nothing will prevent its 
manifestation ; but there is a spurious kind which is 
often held up for our admiration. A man affirms that 
he could do such and such things, provided he were 
differently situated, had no business, family, or irksome 
cares to consume his energy ; a woman desires us to 
believe she would be a musician, artist, or writer, if 
her surroundings were more favorable, if she but 
received encouragement. Must not such childish, 
irrational ideas excite a smile of half pity, half 
contempt, in people accustomed to observation and 
reflection ? Who would not be admired, beloved, 
eminent, immortalized, if it cost but the wishing? 
The records of genius,, however, give a far different 
impression as to the cost of fame : they speak of 
misunderstanding, alienation, trial ; of the sacrifice 
of comfort, affection, worldly position; of bitter criti- 
cism, persecution, and calumny — of these and many 
other painful consequences which fall to the share of 
those who give themselves up unreservedly to art, 



CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 



95 



literature, science, or any other work demanding 
abandonment of ease and disregard of the world's 
opinion. 

Genius may manifest itself in the form of an idea, 
an impulse, or an inspiration : he who clings to this 
manifestation through good and evil repute, spite of 
difficulty, ridicule, or contempt, endeavoring to the 
utmost of ability to express it in such form as will be 
clear to the minds about him — or to those of posterity 
— is under the influence of the divine afflatus. 

Genius, we are often told, is dreamy, speculative, 
ill regulated, improvident, unfitted to cope with the 
realities of life ; apparently without the helmsman 
judgment it drifts about helplessly on a sea of doubt, 
and sighs away its life in vain efforts to reach the 
main shore of certainty. But, while we admit the 
truth of such charges in some cases, we must likewise 
maintain that when genius causes unhappiness to the 
possessor, this result may generally be traced to a 
moral or mental flaw, such as intemperance, licen- 
tiousness, or inordinate ambition. 

The incompatibility of intellect and virtue has 
frequently been contested ; but, even granting that 
breadth of reason causes increased liability to temp- 
tation, the same may be said of physical strength 
and beauty, of wealth, and of power. Superiority 
in any form implies augmented responsibility. 

Whatever a man of intellect does, bears the impress 
of force, and makes him either more saintly or more 
villainous than his inferiors. Without intellect, even 
conscience itself becomes the miserable tool of ig- 
norance, custom, or passion. Who can doubt that 
morality has existed in all ages and among all 



9 6 



CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 



nations ? Yet the grossness and the cruelty which 
men of weak brains and strong passions have prac- 
ticed in the name of morality testify to the tendencies 
of human nature when not held in check by reason. 
The keener the mental perceptions the greater the 
likelihood of breaking through the outer crust of 
conventionality and penetrating to the true nature of 
good and evil. 

Thought is a strange, irresistible force penetrating 
every fibre of our being, and to a great extent con- 
trolling those momentous questions of morality which 
agitate the world. Can any one doubt that here is 
the seat of moral principle, that if men are to be made 
noble, worthy in all respects of their high privileges, 
their minds must be fitly furnished ? Action is rarely 
commensurate with thought — whether in goodness 
or in badness — but the two assimilate closely enough 
to demonstrate the responsibility entailed upon each 
mind. 

That even the grandest mind may have flaws, biog- 
raphy affords ample proof. Of Coleridge we learn 
from his daughter that " he had a special intellectual 
flaw." His memory, according to Archdeacon Hare, 
" was notoriously irretentive." " On a certain class of 
subjects," adds his daughter, " it was extraordinarily 
confused and inaccurate ; matters of fact, as such, laid 
no hold upon his mind; of all he heard and saw,. he 
readily caught and well retained the spirit, but the 
letter escaped him ; he seemed incapable of paying 
the due regard to it" 

Montaigne, whose " sublime Essays," as Alfieri 
designates them, have carried instruction and delight 
to many generations, tells us of all the things he 



CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. gy 

could not do, and of the defects of mind which inter- 
fered with his plans and subjected him to endless an- 
noyance. " As to the achievements of intellect," he 
says, "nothing of my own has ever contented me; and 
the approbation of others has no value whatever in 
my eyes. 

" Although possessing a sensitive and critical mind, 
I mistrust myself continually, and waver and bend 
through absolute weakness. There is nothing in my 
character which satisfies my judgment. My perceptive 
powers are tolerably clear and well trained; but when 
I work they become confused. This is plainly seen 
in my poetry. Although I really love it and am well 
acquainted with the works of others, yet in applying 
my own hand to it I am nothing but a child. And 
wherever else one may play the fool, it cannot be done 
in poetry. I envy the happiness of those who are 
gratified by their own work, for to extract pleasure 
from one's self is such an easy way of obtaining it. 

" I have always an idea in my mind, a sort of 
imagery, which presents, as in a dream, a better form 
than that I have used, but I cannot seize and utilize it. 
. . . Every thing of mine is coarse and evinces a lack 
of refinement and beauty. I do not know how to give 
things the appearance of more value than they possess. 
My style adds nothing to the subject under consider- 
ation. 

4< Memory — that useful and marvelous instrument 
without which judgment can scarcely perform its 
functions — fails me when I most need it. Whatever 
subject I am to consider must be presented to me 
piecemeal, for to reply to a question possessing several 
different heads would be utterly beyond my capacity. 



9 8 



CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 



And when I have a speech to make, if of any length, 
I am reduced to the miserable necessity of learning it 
by heart, word for word; otherwise I should have 
neither connection nor self-possession, through the 
constant fear of memory failing me. But neither does 
this relieve me of embarrassment, for I require three 
hours to learn three verses ; moreover, in writings of 
my own, the very liberty to alter the style, change a 
word or even the whole subject-matter, renders it the 
more difficult to retain it in memory. The more I am 
annoyed the more uncertain it becomes : upon the 
whole it serves me best by accident and I must solicit 
it with an air of indifference. If I urge it, it resists, 
and as soon as it begins to waver my urging only 
embarrasses it the more ; in short, it serves me when 
it chooses, not when I choose. . . . 

" My library, considered a good one for the country, 
is situated in a wing of my house. If something I 
want to look for or write, comes into my mind, I am 
obliged to give it to some one else to keep, for fear 
it should escape me even while crossing the court- 
yard. If in conversation I venture to turn ever so 
little from the point, I lose the thread entirely: con- 
sequently, my speech is constrained, dry, and reserved. 
I have so poor a memory for names that it is necessary 
for me to call my servants by their occupations or 
their native places. 

" I might remember that there were three syllables, 
that the sound was harsh, or that it began or ended 
with such a letter; if I should live long I should 
probably forget my own name just as I now do those 
of others. Messala Corvinus during two years was 
wholly deprived of memory, and the same is recorded 



CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 



99 



of George of Trebizond. I amuse myself trying to 
imagine what kind of life it would have been for me, 
and whether without that faculty enough would be 
left to make life tolerable. Looking at the subject 
carefully, I fear this defect, if entire, destroys all the 
functions of the mind. More than once I have for- 
gotten the watchword I had given or received three 
hours before, or where I had hidden my purse. . . . 

" Memory is the receptacle and case of science : mine 
being so weak, I cannot complain that my knowledge 
is so scant. I know the names of the arts in general 
and of what they treat — but nothing beyond. I turn 
over books, I do not study them ; what I retain of 
them is no longer to be considered theirs, but simply 
that which my own judgment has seen fit to profit by, 
the ideas and fancies with which it has become imbued. 
The author, the place, words, and other circumstances 
escape me entirely. In truth, I am so expert in for- 
getting, that even my own writings and compositions 
share the same fate as those of others. 

"In addition to this lack of memory I have other 
defects, which add greatly to my ignorance. My mind 
is slow and dull, and the slightest cloud checks its 
course, so that I have never been able to solve the 
easiest enigma : in games like chess, checkers, and 
cards I comprehend only the very first principles. . . . 
" There is no soul so mean or brutalized that it 
does not manifest some special faculty; none so ob- 
tuse that it does not make a sally in some direction. 
Since it happens that a mind may be impenetrable 
and sluggish concerning most things, but animated, 
clear, and excellent in one special branch, it is a sub- 
ject well worth investigation. 



IOO CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 

"But truly noble minds are universal, receptive, 
open to every thing, and if not enlightened, are at 
least teachable. 

"As to mine, there could not be one more inapt and 
ignorant with regard to certain common things and 
which cannot be ignored without shame. I was born 
and bred in the country, and since inheriting my 
property have had the management of affairs in my 
own hands. And yet I do not know how to count 
either with counters or with figures ; indeed, I do not 
even know the greater part of our currency. I do not 
know one grain from another, either in the ground or 
in the granary, unless the appearance be very marked; 
nor, in the garden, hardly the difference between cab- 
bage and salad. I could not tell the names of the 
most simple household utensils, nor the first principles 
of agriculture, such as children know; neither do I 
know aught of mechanics, of buying and selling, of 
fruits, wines, or meats, or how to train a bird, or 
physic a horse or a dog ; indeed, to make full con- 
fession, it must be added that not a month ago I was 
caught ignorant of the fact that yeast is necessary to 
make bread and that wine must be fermented. In 
ancient times, at Athens a man's aptitude for math- 
ematics was discerned by his ingenious manner of 
tying up a bundle of fagots. Whereas from me 
a totally different conclusion might be drawn, for 
with a whole kitchen at my disposal I might famish. 
Judging from these samples, other deficiencies may 
readily be imagined. . . . 

"If an artist may paint his own portrait, why 
may not a writer do the same with his pen? Hence I 
must not omit, however undesirable to make public, 



CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. IO i 

one defect extremely inconvenient in business matters 
— Irresolution. As Petrarch says, 'My heart tells me 
neither yes nor no.' I never undertake any thing 
doubtful, and although capable of maintaining an 
opinion, I cannot choose one. For in human affairs, 
whichever way I turn, I find ample cause and reason 
for supporting an idea or plan: consequently, I reserve 
my doubts and liberty of choosing until urged to a 
decision; and then, to tell the truth, I generally allow 
chance to decide, and throw myself upon the mercy 
of fortune. The slightest inclination or circumstance 
settles the question. According to Terence, 'When 
the mind is in doubt, the least weight makes it lean to 
one side or the other.' 

"Usually, the uncertainty of my judgment is so 
equally balanced that I should willingly compromise 
for the decision of fate or dice. And we must not fail 
to notice the examples that sacred history, with great 
consideration for human weakness, has left of this 
manner of leaving to chance the decision of elections 
and doubtful matters. 

" Human reason is a sword both strong and danger- 
ous : even in the hands of Socrates, its most intimate 
friend, we see of how many different strokes it is 
capable. Consequently, I can only follow and permit 
myself to be carried along with the crowd. I do not 
trust my own strength sufficiently to command or 
guide, but am content to find steps cut by others. 
If essential to run the risk of an uncertain choice, I 
prefer to let it be according to one who is more sure 
and tenacious of his opinions than myself." 

After discussing the subject of judgment, and the 
confidence of each individual in his own, Montaigne 



102 CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 

continues: " The world always looks straight ahead; 
I turn my sight within, fix and occupy it there. I 
have no business with any one save myself, and reflect 
upon this question incessantly; I aim at self-control, 
and delight in it. Others go elsewhere if they see 
fit, always seeking to advance ; I find enough in my- 
self to explore. This capacity of extracting the truth, 
such as it is, from this source, and of trusting this 
verdict, I owe mainly to my organization. The firmest 
opinions I have are, in general, those generated in 
me; they are natural, entirely my own. Although a 
hardy product, they were .at first crude, somewhat un- 
certain and imperfect ; afterwards I strengthened and 
established them by the authority of others, especially 
by the sound example of those among the ancients who 
proved conformable to my judgment: these gave me 
confidences more definite possession and enjoyment." 
After reading this searching self-criticism, it is 
interesting to know that Emerson places Montaigne's 
Essays among the " best books ;" that Hazlitt says : 
" They may be recommended to any one to read who 
has ever thought at all, or who would learn to think 
justly upon any subject;" that Montesquieu said of 
him : "In most authors we see a man who writes : in 
Montaigne we see a man who thinks." And Sainte- 
Beuve, after enumerating his attainments and charac- 
teristics, adds : " In all respects he seems to me an 
experienced and complete example of nature herself. 
During civil war he manifests neither passion nor 
ambition; in several public posts he acquits himself 
with honor, no sooner laying aside his titles than he 
again becomes simply a man. fitre homme, voila sa 
profession ; he has no other aim, and refrains from 



CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 103 

entering into any project too deeply, for fear of be- 
coming expatriated from that universal and humane 
profession. Not possessing, as he himself tells us, 
science enough to examine a child in its first lessons, 
he nevertheless has a faculty which enables him to 
measure by two or three questions the exact stature 
of that child's mind. Thus he lives active and inde- 
pendent, analyzing every thing, but returning at will 
into that free natural state of thought, that abstraction 
as it were, where new strength may be acquired. 
Voila l'homme avant tout et apres tout." 

Leigh Hunt says of Charles Lamb, " As was his 
frame, so was his genius. It was as fit for thought 
as could be, and equally as unfit for action; and this 
rendered him melancholy, apprehensive, humorous, 
and willing to make the best of every thing as it was, 
both from tenderness of heart and abhorrence of 
alteration. His understanding was too great to admit 
an absurdity ; his frame was not strong enough to 
deliver it from a fear. His sensibility to strong con- 
trasts was the foundation of his humour, which was 
that of a wit at once melancholy and willing to be 
pleased. . . . His humour and his knowledge both, 
were those of Hamlet, of Moliere, of Carlin, who 
shook a city with laughter, and, in order to divert 
his melancholy, was recommended to go and hear 
himself. Yet he extracted a real pleasure out of his 
jokes, because good-heartedness retains that privilege 
when it fails in every thing else. . . . Willing to see 
society go on as it did, because he despaired of seeing 
it otherwise, but not at all agreeing in his interior 
with the common notions of crime and punishment, 
he ' dumbfounded' a long tirade one evening, by 



104 



CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 



taking the pipe out of his mouth, and asking the 
speaker, ' Whether he meant to say that a thief was 
not a good man ?' To a person abusing Voltaire, 
and indiscreetly opposing his character to that of 
Jesus Christ, he said admirably well (though he by 
no means over-rated Voltaire, nor wanted reverence 
in the other quarter), that ' Voltaire was a very good 
Jesus Christ for the French! He liked to see the 
church-goers continue to go to church, and wrote a 
tale in his sister's admirable little book (Mrs. Leices- 
ter's School) to encourage the rising generation to 
do so ; but to a conscientious deist he had nothing 
to object; and if an atheist had found every other 
door shut against him, he would assuredly not have 
found his. I believe he would have had the world 
remain precisely as it was, provided it innovated no 
farther." 

Alfieri tells us his ignorance was gigantic, but he 
was not ashamed of it. He was " well convinced," 
too, " that to write tragedies the first great requisition 
is to feel intensely, which cannot be acquired ;" that 
" thinking in a language is the indispensable prerequi- 
site for writing it well;" and that his "ill success in 
rhyming convinced him he ought never to give up 
reading and learning by heart the best poets, in order 
to familiarize himself perfectly with poetical forms." 
Of the preparation essential for composition Alfieri had 
most stringent ideas, and in his Autobiography gives 
minute accounts of his studies and the " immense 
labor" they cost him. Even while pursuing graver 
studies, he did not abandon the Italian poets, and 
read and took notes of Dante and Petrarch five times 
in four years. 



CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 105 

Of Bulwer we are told that " he worked his way to 
eminence — worked it through failure, through ridi- 
cule; that his facility was only the resuit of prac- 
tice and study; that he wrote at first very slowly, 
and with great difficulty; but that he resolved to 
master the stubborn instrument of thought, and did 
master it. That he practised writing as an art ; and 
re-wrote some of his essays (unpublished) nine or ten 
times over. That he wrote only about three hours a 
day, the evenings, when alone, being devoted to read- 
ing; that eventually he wrote very rapidly, averaging 
twenty pages a day of novel print." 

Of Prof. Wilson, the " Christopher North" of "Black- 
wood" we learn that whatever he had to write, even 
though a day or two were to keep him close at work, 
he never interrupted his pen saving to take his night's 
rest, and a late dinner served to him in his study. 
Every record of worthy literary work is a fresh trib- 
ute to the indispensableness of uninterrupted writing. 
The mind will not perform its functions if compelled to 
attend to multifarious duties and engagements when 
about to compose. Often, indeed, hours of medita- 
tion are necessary before it can be brought down to 
the subject in hand, but when once there, nothing 
should be permitted to interfere with its working. 
Sickness, accident, affliction, or offices of humanity 
excepted, no call should take the writer away from 
his task when inspired to composition. Interruption 
and distraction are fatal to good writing, and neither 
food, nor sleep, nor pleasure, nor affection, nor re- 
monstrance should be permitted to break in upon 
such a mood. Thousands of young writers, gifted but 
timid, irresolute, and conventional, have by this means 



106 CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 

wasted or lost their best strength. Attempting to live 
in the world and in conformity with its requirements, 
while at the same time stirred by literary impulses, 
they miss their aim in both directions. Either the 
world or art must be chosen as the governing power 
— the two can never be compatible. Success in 
any one sphere demands the whole man, meaning 
will, strength, energy, perseverance, enthusiasm, and 
inspiration. 

All knowledge is universal in its bounties, meant 
for all human beings, just in proportion to their power 
of absorption and assimilation ; and so good a thing 
is it that we can never have too much, nor can we 
ever give too much to others ; neither can we, under 
any circumstances, be permitted to waste or to hoard 
what has been given into our hands, but come what 
may to us of criticism or enmity as a result of our 
disposal of the treasure, we are forced by our human 
kinship to make it as judiciously and fairly as ability 
permits. 

However mediocre the talent or feeble the voice, 
each one of us is bound by that kinship — a vow 
taken as it were with the first breath of conscious 
soul-life — to put forth the very best of his vitality in 
behalf of our race. How best to fulfil this vow, no 
one being can tell another: to learn that secret must 
be deemed the holiest of life's many claims. 

To be convinced that the intellect is chief among 
realities implies a strong desire to devote the best 
hours of life to acting upon the conviction, and in 
sending forth the results in visible shape or in subtile 
influence with the hope that others, too, may be in- 
duced to seek so rare a joy, — one of the few which 



CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 107 

yield perpetual freshness. To Literature — as the em- 
bodiment of all that the intellect cherishes of reason, 
imagination, wit, sentiment, and morality — there should 
be a statue erected so perfect in form and feature that 
the whole world should do homage at the shrine. 
Symbol of every noble thought and soul-stirring deed, 
it should receive the reverence of all classes, all ages, 
all grades of ability. 

Over how many living human souls has not Litera- 
ture presided at birth, ever after watching, guarding, 
and following their steps, and finally gently draw- 
ing them up into that spiritual atmosphere where 
thought and sentiment are deemed of infinitely more 
importance than any possession the world can offer ! 

There are indeed instances where men do not know 
the goddess who thus presides over them, and in their 
ignorance wander hither and thither, trying, tasting, 
enjoying, suffering, but regardless of the pure vivifying 
force which awaits their attention. Once enlightened, 
however, such souls overflow with gratitude and are 
ready to exclaim : Why, O ethereal Protectress, didst 
thou not reveal thyself earlier to our perturbed spirits, 
which during so long a period knew no explanation 
of the dark enigmas propounded on every side? 
Nevertheless, we do not dare to question thy inscru- 
table ways, and are content to believe that although 
invisible thou wast ever with us, guiding, directing, 
inspiring ! Why in the past thou didst conceal thy- 
self from our gaze, remaining in impenetrable disguise, 
beseems us not to inquire. Thou knewest to what 
wise ends that bitter discipline should serve, and now 
what remains save to thank thee, that amid all 
murmuring, discontent, and rebellion, thou didst ever 



108 CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 

remain true and faithful ? Since thou hast deigned to 
draw aside the veil and show thyself in all thy 
splendor, we bow before thee in love and adoration, 
and, charged with the spiritual forces beaming from 
thy dear features, implore thy aid in expressing what 
thou hast awakened ! Receive the purest and best of 
our inner life, of that which comes we know not whence 
and goes we know not whither ! Accept our vows of 
dedication, cover us with the' mantle of thy love, and 
permit us to bind ourselves irrevocably to thy service ! 
Not less solemn, not less self-abnegating shall these 
vows be than those which under other names and 
forms sever mortals from all that is perishable and 
commit them to the service of religion ! With a child- 
like trust we present what we have and what we are 
at thine altar, convinced that there is the peace which 
until now has been vainly sought elsewhere. But, 
knowing that however sincere and earnest these vows, 
they are subject to the same temptations which beset 
all men, we entreat thee to use whatever means thou 
wilt to make us strong, steadfast, and loyal. Punish, 
torture, inflict upon us suffering in any shape, rather 
than permit us to prove unfaithful in thought, word, 
or deed to these our vows! Could aught of pain or 
humiliation overbalance the joy and content which fill 
our being since permitted to view thy transcendent 
beauty? Here in thy presence we fear nothing, and 
are conscious of a serenity which no earthly tumult 
can affect. And then, when our faithfulness shall have 
been proved, and all gross ties abhorred and severed, 
may it be our privilege to lead others to thy shrine! 
May our souls be inflamed, causing eye, heart, and 
word to be ever on the wing to do service in thy 



CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 109 

behalf — may they know neither peace, rest, nor 
indulgence until their best strength has been ex- 
hausted in the endeavor to augment thy worship- 
pers and bring them to acknowledge thy wondrous 
power ! 



IV. 

VOICE AND LANGUAGE. 



Eloquence, like every other art, rests on laws the most exact and 
determinate. It is the best speech of the best soul. — Emerson. 

Sa conversation etait un melange de tous les genres d'espi-it; l'en- 
thousiasme des beaux-arts et la connaissance du monde, la finesse des 
idees et la profondeur des sentiments, enfin tous les charmes de la viva- 
cite et de la rapidite s'y faisaient remarquer, sans que pour cela ses 
pensees fussent jamais incompletes ni ses reflexions legeres. — Mme. de 
Stael. 

Where are the circles in which conversation is carried on as the 
loftiest and richest of the social arts ? — W. R. Alger. 



A skilled musician need hear only a few tones of 
an instrument to judge of its capacity; and if through 
an understanding of its mechanism he be enabled to 
suggest improvements in adaptation or management, 
he enhances its value tenfold, and becomes a veritable 
benefactor to all lovers of the art. 

In like manner the human voice announces its power 
to the initiated ear, instantaneously producing not only 
the extremes of pain or pleasure, but all the interme- 
diate grades expressed by psychological attraction and 
repulsion. Whether of a deep-toned strength, a gentle 
sweetness, a weary monotony, or a distracting shrill- 
ness, the voice is essentially the vehicle for transmitting 
a man's inner self to the outer world. In its manifold 
no 



VOICE AND LANGUAGE. m 

vibrations may be found the secrets of the soul; and 
although these are not to be divined by superficial 
observers, their presence is made perceptible by the 
interest awakened or dislike engendered. 

Here there can be no masking, no decking out by 
fashion, no veiling by etiquette, no falling back upon 
ancestry for support; for by a curious magic which 
defies investigation, the mere tones of a voice reveal 
the precise calibre of its owner's character. The tes- 
timony of finely-organized people proves that the ear 
is frequently more competent to form a rapid and 
correct judgment of character than either the eye or 
reason; that it communicates facts wholly reliable, 
and enables us — without conscious volition — to learn 
what first excited admiration, curiosity, or suspicion, 
and much besides that the speaker would perhaps 
desire us not to know. 

Just as a human face is crossed and recrossed with 
lines, wrought all over, as it were, with a life-history, 
so a voice narrates a straightforward, impartial version 
of past and present experience, forcing us into belief 
or doubt even against appearances or preconceived 
opinion. It tells of a fine- or coarse-grained nature, 
of a mind well trained and stored with wholesome 
thoughts and bright fancies, or of one impaired by 
negligence and low companionship; of a manner cour- 
teous and considerate towards others, or of one gruff 
and intolerant; especially does it tell of shallowness 
or depth of morality, whether the actual affairs of life 
are regulated by firm principle or flimsy expediency. 

This faculty of divination by the ear — like many 
other devices of nature intended for man's happiness 
but wellnigh lost sight of in the tremendous current 



H2 VOICE AND LANGUAGE. 

of worldliness which sweeps away so large a propor- 
tion of the best things of life — becomes, when recog- 
nized and fostered, a strong bulwark against the im- 
portunities of fools and the machinations of enemies. 

With an adviser so disinterested always at hand, we 
are enabled to choose our companions, not for what 
they represent of genealogy, wealth, or position, but 
for what they are to us individually as man to man or 
woman to woman. 

Voices differ so much, it is argued, in physical struc- 
ture, that men can hardly be called responsible for the 
effect produced. 

Positive deficiencies, undoubtedly, call for our broad- 
est charity, and seldom fail to receive it; but for care- 
lessness, mumbling, or vulgarity of tone, for the ab- 
breviating, clipping, and distorting of words, there can 
be no possible extenuation; and criticism and ridicule 
are privileged to exert their influence in bringing about 
amelioration. 

Why cannot every advocate of pure mother-English 
do what in him lies to abolish certain existing usages 
which interfere with the true functions of speech and 
make it but too frequently an instrument of torture 
rather than a means of delight? 

To be fated to listen day after day to voices in- 
curably affected with nasal intonation or exasperating 
muttering; to watch lips too lazy to form words 
properly, indeed barely animated enough to drop the 
monosyllabic phrases indispensable to personal com- 
fort; to have the sensibilities torn by harsh, hectoring 
tones, which either induce dogged silence or goad into 
irrepressible indignation; to be irritated by those vapid 
superfluities of the tongue resulting from empty heads 



VOICE AND LANGUAGE. 



"3 



and conventional hearts — such are a few of the pen- 
alties entailed upon the unfortunate possessor of an 
ear for language. In the contemplation of these mise- 
ries may be found ample space for the critical prowess 
of those alive to the ever-varying charms of word- 
music, but doomed to suffer from its antagonisms. 

To -know, and to speak of what they know, should 
be the highest aim of rational beings; for however 
imperfect acquired wisdom may be, and however in- 
adequate the means of imparting it to others, it may 
prove a leaven which will raise earnest questioning 
and fruitful action. 

That the pointing out of error by no means implies 
its prompt amendment, is a truism which every child 
can endorse; so there are many people owning weak 
ineffective voices and otherwise evincing a marked 
inaptitude for the mastery of elocution, who deeply 
regret what seems as troublesome an inheritance as 
an inferior mind or an unmanageable temper. Never- 
theless, where cure is impossible, alleviation becomes 
a boon greatly to be appreciated ; and we can hardly 
over-estimate the benefits to accrue from bringing all 
manner of persuasion and remonstrance to bear upon 
imperfections of voice and language, and aiming 
at eradication as far as nature and circumstances 
permit. 

In times past there have been theorists (perchance 
even to-day there may be some) who maintained that 
schools and teachers should be held accountable for 
the progress of their scholars : that in elocution, for 
instance, a few years of instruction should suffice to 
bring forth clear, full-toned voices, and able, impress- 
ive speakers. 



114 



VOICE AND LANGUAGE. 



So unreasonable a theory, it may readily be sup- 
posed, could stand but slight tests; but on the other 
side, it cannot be claimed that our present mode of 
instruction in this particular branch is well suited to 
the end sought. 

To those who have not been taught at home to 
speak well, elocution must indeed appear an art diffi- 
cult of comprehension and valueless in purpose, at 
best a mere imitation of another's voice, irksome 
during the lesson and never thought of afterwards, 
bearing no more relation to the art itself than a 
wilful plagiarism does to originality of thought. 

" Go to some — may we say all — of our colleges and 
universities," says Dr. James Rush, "and observe how 
the art of speaking, — is not taught there. See a boy of 
but fifteen years, sent upon a stage, pale and choking 
with apprehension; being forced into an attempt to do 
that, without instruction, which he came purposely to 
learn ; and furnishing amusement to his class-mates, 
by a pardonable awkwardness, which should be pun- 
ished, in the person of his pretending but neglectful 
preceptor, with little less than scourging. 

" Then visit a Conservatorio of Music, — observe 
there the orderly tasks, the masterly discipline, the 
unwearied superintendence, and the incessant toil to 
produce accomplishment of voice ; and afterwards do 
not be surprised that the pulpit, the senate, the bar, 
and the chair of medical professorship, are filled with 
such abominable drawlers, mouthers, mumblers, clut- 
terers, squeakers, chanters, and mongers in monotony; 
nor that the schools of singing are constantly sending 
abroad those great instances of vocal wonder who 
sound along the high places of the world; who are 



VOICE AND LANGUAGE. 115 

bidden to the halls of fashion and wealth; who some- 
times quell the pride of rank by its momentary sen- 
sation of envy; and who draw forth the intelligent 
curiosity, and produce the crowning delight and ap- 
probation of the Prince and the Sage." 

Pungent sentences like the above need no comment, 
and a Conservatorio of Language, such as they suggest, 
would be hailed with gratitude by all people of true 
culture. Meanwhile, those who live in the chaotic 
period between its conception and its existence must 
needs find what content they may in diligently seek- 
ing to infuse the minds around them with preparatory 
ideas. 

From the people — the great heaving multitude 
whose first thoughts and most strenuous efforts must 
be directed to food and clothing — we have no right 
to expect that interest in the cultivation of language 
which develops into nobility of construction and purity 
of accent. 

But with those favored ones exempted by Fortune 
from the pressure of labor, its exactions and anxieties, 
there cannot be too much argument and persistence 
in urging the claims of language; in demonstrating 
that even children are capable of being roused to the 
importance of gaining a correct utterance and agreea- 
bly-modulated tones; of becoming as expert in detect- 
ing flaws and improprieties in their mother-tongue as 
in the dress and manner of their associates. Even if 
liable to wax aggressive in their criticisms and show a 
lack of discrimination in launching forth impressions 
and opinions, the very ardor of these juvenile reformers 
may help to reach the root of the evil. 

The precise way in which the voice may be im- 



Il6 VOICE AND LANGUAGE. 

proved or a conversational ability cultivated, must be 
left to the judgment of the individual or his teacher. 
The need of change once felt, modes of effecting it 
will not be wanting : the bare fact of inquiry is one 
direct means of furthering the wished-for object. 

The mysterious world-moving power called Reform 
rarely springs from a community, but rather from a 
single mind which expresses its idea to another and 
another until finally the whole body of minds about it 
is impregnated with a like desire for change. Hence, 
it is not solely upon the intelligence of the teacher, 
the scholar, or the parent that this subject of language 
should be engrafted, but upon every member of every 
household, whatever the race, social grade, or profession. 

Whether the plant will take root and thrive, bear 
good fruit, and ultimately become one of the most 
valued adjuncts of our social life, cannot be foretold. 
Uncertainty as to results, however, never deters the 
experimenter from a new attempt, and even if the sur- 
roundings be adverse, he remembers that the minutest 
seed of bold endeavor contains the embryo of an ob- 
ject well defined and full of promise. 

So-called " natural" people speak as they think, 
with a valiant disregard of mode and effect, and to a 
certain extent such naturalness is both pleasing and 
desirable. In many of these cases, however, the quali- 
ties that please are chiefly those of the heart or 
temperament, and with voice- and language-culture 
those same people would yield infinitely more strength 
and sweetness than when in their primitive condition. 
The power of conversation is one which greatly lessens 
the barriers erected by wealth and prejudice, and lends 
to social reunions an attraction more universal than 



VOICE AND LANGUAGE. 



117 



even personal beauty, music, or art. The conditions 
most favorable for its development are individual cul- 
ture and that intellectual intercourse between men and 
women which society alone renders possible. 

As well expect a man to become proficient in the 
art of painting without observing closely how other 
artists work — at the same time using the brush freely 
himself — as expect him to acquire ease and facility 
in expressing his thoughts without frequent personal 
contact with other minds. The simple forms of talk- 
ing, such as questions asked and answered, informa- 
tion given, affection interchanged, counsel sought and 
offered, may, of course, be acquired without going 
beyond the domestic threshold. But for minds of 
natural quickness, eager for expansion and acquisition, 
something more than the substantial fare of practical 
life is needed. Rich endowments of intellect and sen- 
sibility create in us a desire to share them with others, 
and likewise to seek for ourselves the nutriment which 
kindred minds alone can give. 

As Sir James Mackintosh justly remarks: "Any 
thing may be said if spoken in the tone of society; the 
highest guests are welcome if they come in the easy 
undress of the club ; the strongest metaphor appears 
without violence if it is familiarly expressed ; and we 
the more easily catch the warmest feeling if we per- 
ceive that it is intentionally lowered in expression out 
of condescension to our calmer temper. It is thus 
that harangues and declamations, the last proof of bad 
taste and bad manners in conversation, are. avoided, 
while the fancy and the heart find the means of pour- 
ing forth all their stores. To meet this despised part 
of language in a polished dress and producing all the 



Il8 VOICE AND LANGUAGE. 

effect of wit and eloquence, is a constant source of 
agreeable surprise. This is increased when a few 
bolder and higher words are happily wrought into the 
texture of this familiar eloquence." 

Of Mackintosh himself we have countless pane- 
gyrics relative to his powers of conversation. Sydney 
Smith says of him : " His conversation was more 
brilliant than that of any human being I ever had the 
good fortune to be acquainted with. His memory 
(vast and prodigious as it was) he so managed as to 
make it a source of pleasure and instruction, rather 
than that dreadful engine of colloquial oppression into 
which it is sometimes erected. He remembered things, 
words, thoughts, dates, and every thing that was 
wanted. His language was beautiful, and might have 
gone from the fireside to the press. . . ." 

If we consider the number of qualifications requisite 
to make a brilliant talker, we cannot be surprised that 
so few are recorded in the history of society. Culture 
of mind, self-possession, good-temper, flexibility of 
voice, the power of adapting ability to the exigency of 
place and occasion, and, above all, that magnetic force 
which involuntarily compels attention from hearers, — 
all these are indispensable to produce the effect de- 
scribed of those who have won distinction in that field. 
Finally, the practice which results from constant inter- 
course with people of similar advantages, completes 
the training which develops this rare accomplishment. 

Our estimate of brilliancy and eloquence varies 
according to our personal judgment, culture, or preju- 
dice. The incessant flow of language, the witty sallies 
and clever anecdotes of the celebrated talker may seem 
to us overstrained, unnatural, or tiresome, if our own 



VOICE AND LANGUAGE. 



II 9 



mood is not in consonance with the topic of the hour, 
or if there be no rapport between the speaker and our- 
selves. At times we may feel with De Quincey that 
" of all the bores whom man in his folly hesitates to 
hang, and Heaven in its mysterious wisdom suffers to 
propagate their species, the most insufferable is the 
teller of ' good stories,' — a nuisance that should be 
put down by cudgelling, a submersion in horse-ponds, 
or any mode of abatement, as summarily as men 
would combine to suffocate a vampire or a mad dog." 
In short, human judgment upon any subject is so 
dependent upon the calibre of the individual judge — 
upon his ideas, sentiments, and temperament — that, 
with certain rare exceptions, a man's reputation for 
eloquence cannot compel our individual admiration. 
If we are to give it, it must come from our own appre- 
ciation of ability or talent, not because other people 
give it. 

Of eloquence, Emerson says : " It is the doctrine 
of the popular music-masters that whoever can speak 
can sing. So, probably, every man is eloquent once 
in his life. Our temperaments differ in capacity of 
heat, or, we boil at different degrees. One man is 
brought to the boiling-point by the excitement of 
conversation in the parlor. The waters, of course, 
are not very deep. He has a two-inch enthusiasm, 
a patty-pan ebullition. Another requires the addi- 
tional caloric of a multitude and a public debate; a 
third needs an antagonist or a hot indignation; a 
fourth needs a revolution; and a fifth, nothing less 
than the grandeur of absolute ideas, the splendors and 
shades of Heaven and Hell." 

That our temperaments thus " differ in capacity of 



120 VOICE AND LANGUAGE. 

heat" all will unhesitatingly admit; and, after experi- 
ence has kneaded us into contentment with such gifts 
as nature has been pleased to bestow upon us, we 
shall not waste life in wishing ourselves other than 
we are. Such contentment, however, does not imply 
supine willingness to allow our abilities to lie neg- 
lected and untrained to the end of existence. Having 
the power of speech, for instance, we know it is meant 
for something higher than the mere asking and an- 
swering of questions pertaining to outward comfort, 
or the setting forth of such opinions and feelings as 
birth and education have made habitual. If cultured 
enough to appreciate the full value of language, we 
shall deem it a simple duty to study the beauties of 
enunciation, giving to each word its appropriate 
sound and special meaning; and to modulate our 
tones so that the subtile play of thought, the delicate 
tracery of sentiment, and the fervid intensity of pas- 
sion may find scope for every variety of charm and 
pov/er. 

Uttering sounds which no mechanism can either 
imitate or equal, the human voice sways us by the 
reason, imagination, or heart of the speaker, spreads 
before us the beauty of humanity and: the grandeur 
of physical nature, lifts us above the soul-depressing 
pettinesses of daily life, and enables us to participate 
in the priceless treasures of philosophy, poetry, and 
religion. 

To learn of what marvels of expression it is capable, 
we must turn to the orators, actors, and preachers 
who at different epochs in history have thrilled and 
electrified the world : and having duly admired, we 
may with profit study the records which testify to the 



VOICE AND LANGUAGE. 121 

immense labor and indefatigable perseverance which 
preceded those results. Were it not for the dis- 
couraging influence of our national materialism upon 
every form of esthetic growth, the apathy so generally 
manifest regarding voice-culture and conversational 
talent would be wholly inexplicable. Subject, how- 
ever, to that influence — one inseparable from the re- 
quirements of a new country — apathy is a natural 
consequence, and must be regarded with that philo- 
sophic calmness which recognizes the folly of fault- 
finding or denunciation, and chooses the wiser part of 
throwing its own quota of strength into the arena 
where beauty and utility are continually wrestling for 
supremacy. 

Whatever our eyes see must be enjoyed or re- 
flected upon in our own way, not artificially and con- 
strainedly; and whatever our mind apprehends must 
be pondered over with as much honesty and independ- 
ence as if it were called upon to pronounce an opinion 
which would decide the fate of thousands. 

" The highest art being based on sensations of pe- 
culiar minds," says Ruskin, "sensations occurring to 
them only at particular times, and to a plurality of man- 
kind perhaps never, and being expressive of thoughts 
which could only rise out of a mass of the most ex- 
tended knowledge, and of dispositions modified in a 
thousand ways by peculiarity of intellect — can only 
be met and understood by persons having some sort 
of sympathy with the high and solitary minds which 
produced it, — sympathy only to be felt by minds in 
some degree high and solitary themselves. He alone 
can appreciate the art who could comprehend the 
conversation of the painter and share in his emotion 

ii* 



122 VOICE AND LANGUAGE. 

in moments of his most fiery passion and most origi- 
nal thought." 

What is true in one branch of esthetics is true in 
all ; so that no man and no woman need fear too 
much interest or too much enthusiasm in the subject 
that moves them. We can be passionate and eloquent 
only concerning those people, those objects, or those 
arts which appeal to our deepest sympathies and most 
elevated thoughts : but when we are thus moved we 
owe it to ourselves and others to speak and permit 
our experiences to be enrolled among those of our 
contemporaries. 

If voice and language appear to us as competent to 
interpret soul-life as music or art, and consequently 
as well worth the consecration of our lives, why not 
give expression to the conviction as best we may, 
and show by personal endeavor that we feel the truth 
we utter? To be eloquent, what more is needed than 
earnestness, devotion, and passion ? 

Eye, lip, and hand are but instruments of the life 
within, and wait passively for the power that is to move 
them to noble or beautiful action. What our voice 
shall say to the world, and what shall be its penetrative 
force and melody, depend infinitely more upon our 
own treatment of it than upon natural calibre. To 
glow with an ardent desire for skill wherewith to depict 
the beauty and grace of language, so that it may appear 
to all men as one of the choicest gifts of Heaven, is a 
more effectual aid to our cause than our actual lung- 
power or the structure of the throat; to make every 
moment and every opportunity conduce to practical 
demonstration of our own belief is to be more con- 
vincing than to set forth volumes of opinion or advice. 



VOICE AND LANGUAGE. 



123 



That this art is by us, as a people, deplorably 
neglected, needs neither assertion nor illustration; for 
in those places where we have a right to expect at 
least a fair amount of force and elegance, — the pulpit, 
the stage, the school, the bar*, society, and the home, 
— we find, generally, not only weakness and inele- 
gance, but, what is far worse, utter ignorance and 
indifference upon the subject. 

Madame Roland, in those celebrated Memoires 
called by Sainte-Beuve " delicieux et indispensables," 
says : ". The charm of the voice is one both rare and 
powerful in its effect upon the senses ; it depends, 
too, not only upon the quality of tone, but upon the 
delicacy of sentiment which varies language and 
modulates the accent. This beauty of the human 
voice, a very different thing from its force, is as un- 
common in orators as in the mass which forms society. 
I have sought it in our three assemblies nationales, 
without finding it in any one in perfection. Mirabeau 
himself, although possessing the imposing magic of a 
noble elocution, had neither an agreeable tone of voice 
nor a pleasing pronunciation. 'Where then was- your 
model ?' might be asked. To which I answer as the 
artist did when asked where he got that charming 
look which he gave to all the heads created by his 
hand. ' Here,' he replied, putting his finger to his 
forehead : whereas I put mine upon my ear. Although 
I have seldom frequented the theatre, I believe this 
merit is equally rare there. ... I believe that the 
exquisite sensibility of the Greeks made them attach 
great value to every branch of the art of language; I 
believe, too, that sans cidottisme causes these graces to 
be disdained, and induces a gross ferocity as far re- 



124 



VOICE AND LANGUAGE. 



moved from the precision of the sensible language of 
the Spartans as from the eloquence of the agreeable 
Athenians." 

De Tocqueville calls language " le premier instru- 
ment de la pensee," and says that " American authors 
live more, so to speak, in England than in their own 
country, since they are continually studying English 
writers and daily taking them as models. But with 
the people generally the case is very different, they 
being more directly subjected to particular causes 
which act upon the United States. It is not then to 
written but to spoken language that we must direct 
our attention if we wish to discover the modifications 
that the idiom of an aristocratic people may undergo 
in becoming the language of a democracy. 

"I have often been assured by enlightened English- 
men, who in this matter undoubtedly must be more 
competent judges than myself, that the cultivated 
classes in the United States differ perceptibly in their 
language from the same classes in Great Britain. 

"They complain that not only have the Americans 
brought into use many new words, which the differ- 
ence and distance of the countries would suffice to 
account for, but that these new words are taken 
directly from the jargon of parties, the mechanical 
arts, or the language of business. In addition, they 
say that many old English words are often applied by 
the Americans in a new sense ; and finally, that they 
frequently intermingle styles in a singular manner, 
sometimes placing together words which in the 
mother-country are used separately. 

"These remarks, made at different times by people 
who seemed to me worthy of confidence, led me to 



VOICE AND LANGUAGE. 12 ^ 

reflect upon the subject; and my reflections conducted 
me, by theory, to the same conclusion they had 
reached by practice. In an aristocracy, language 
naturally participates in the general repose of things. 
Few new words are made, because few new events 
occur; even were new events occurring, there would 
be an endeavor to depict them with familiar words to 
which tradition has assigned a meaning. Moreover, 
the new expressions created would have a savant, in- 
tellectual, and philosophical character, indicating that 
they do not spring from a democracy. 

"When the fall of Constantinople had produced a 
movement of science and letters towards the west, the 
French language was suddenly overrun by a multitude 
of new words all having their root in Greek or Latin. 
This caused an erudite neology, adapted only to the 
enlightened classes, and which did not reach the mass 
till long afterwards, and never really affected its lan- 
guage. All the nations of Europe presented the same 
spectacle. Milton alone introduced into the English 
language more than six hundred words, almost all 
derived from the Latin, Greek, and Hebrew. The 
perpetual activity which reigns in a democracy tends 
to renew incessantly the surface of language as well 
as of affairs. In the midst of this general agitation 
and competition of minds, a large number of new ideas 
are formed, while old ones are lost, or remodelled, or 
subdivided into countless insignificant shades. 

"Owing to this, words are often introduced which 
ought not to be used, while others are rejected which 
ought to be adopted. Apparently, a democracy likes 
change for its own sake, this being perceptible in lan- 
guage no less than in politics, so that even when there 



126 VOICE AND LANGUAGE. 

is no necessity for changing words the desire for it is 
sometimes felt. 

"The spirit of a democratic nation is manifested 
not only in the great number of new words adopted, 
but likewise in the nature of the ideas which those 
new words represent. In nations, the majority makes 
the law with reference to language as. well as in all 
other matters. Now, the majority being occupied 
more with business than with studies, more with politi- 
cal and commercial interests than with philosophical 
speculations or with belles-lettres, most of the words 
it creates or admits will bear the stamp of its habits ; 
and they will serve principally to express the needs 
of industry, the passions of parties, or the details of 
public administration. On that side then, language 
will increase without limit, whilst in the direction of 
metaphysics and theology it will little by little lose 
ground. 

"As to the source whence democratic nations derive 
their new words and their manner of fabricating them, 
they are not difficult to name. 

"Men who live in democratic countries rarely know 
the tongue spoken at Rome or at Athens, and they 
care little to go back to antiquity to seek the ex- 
pression they need. If at times they have recourse 
to learned derivations, it is ordinarily Vanity which 
prompts the seeking them in dead languages, not 
erudition which suggests them naturally to the mind. 
Sometimes, indeed, it happens that the most ignorant 
people make the most frequent use of them. That 
desire so peculiarly democratic, to rise above one's 
sphere, often induces people to try and set off a very 
homely trade with a Greek or a Latin name; the lower 



VOICE AND LANGUAGE. \ 2 J 

the occupation and the farther off from science, the 
more pompous and erudite the name. Thus we no 
longer have rope-dancers, but acrobats and funam- 
bulists. 

"In default of dead languages, democratic nations 
are inclined to borrow words from living languages ; 
for there is a constant intercourse between them, and 
men of different countries are not averse to imitating 
one another when they are daily growing more alike. 

" It is principally, however, in their own language 
that a democratic people endeavor to make innova- 
tions. From time to time they take into their vocabu- 
lary certain obsolete expressions, or they draw from a 
particular class of citizens a technical term, and intro- 
duce it in a figurative sense into the common lan- 
guage: in this way, a multitude of terms once belong- 
ing to the special phraseology of a party or a profession 
are forced into general circulation. The ordinary ex- 
pedient employed for such an innovation consists in 
giving to an expression already in use an unusual 
signification ; this is a very simple, quick, and conve- 
nient method, one for which no science is necessary, 
and which ignorance renders even more easy. But 
for language this is a perilous risk : in doubling thus 
the sense of a word, both the original meaning and 
the present one become doubtful. 

"An author begins by slightly turning a familiar 
expression away from its primitive sense, and, having 
thus modified it, adapts it as best he may to his sub- 
ject. Another writer appears who attaches a different 
meaning; a third adapts it to still another purpose; 
and there being no common arbiter, no permanent 
tribunal to fix the sense of the word definitively, it 



128 VOICE AND LANGUAGE. 

remains in an unsettled state. In consequence, writers 
seldom appear to attach themselves to a single idea, 
but stand amid a group of ideas, aiming at something, 
but apparently leaving it to the reader to judge what 
it is. . . . Harmony and homogeneity are merely 
secondary beauties of language, for there is a great 
deal of convention in those things, and under certain 
conditions we may disregard them ; but there can be 
no good language without clear meanings." 

Do not these words express what all reflective minds 
must feel to be prominent defects in our literature, or 
in any other subjected to democratic institutions ? 
But if recognizing defects is the first step towards 
curing them, we are justified in expecting from those 
who are thus enlightened the earnest, persuasive, 
witty, satirical, or passionate words which will spur 
the indolent and unreflecting to activity. Principle 
must always underlie action and give it value and 
power, so that no degree of attention to even the 
simplest forms of voice- or language-culture can be 
expected from those who do not feel its need or 
appreciate its significance. But in each single indi- 
vidual who realizes what may be called one of our 
national deficiencies and resolves to lend hearty aid 
and enthusiasm towards its eradication, we gladly 
recognize a power which cannot fail to be widely felt. 
Especially may we reasonably look to woman as one 
of the most influential means of awaking an interest 
in this branch of education. To make a computation 
of the time devoted to music, drawing, and similar 
accomplishments — for which very often there is not 
the slightest natural ability — and the no-time devoted 
to even the rudiments of talking and reading, would 



VOICE AND LANGUAGE. i2 g 

be altogether too discouraging. Neither can blame be 
attached to any one class of people, any family, parent, 
teacher, school, or college. 

For the most part, it may be assumed that people 
do their best in their respective positions, and are not 
to be censured for their mistakes, follies, ignorance, 
or vulgarity. There is no reason, however, why 
change of thought, motive, and mode of life may not 
in many cases be brought about ; and this is the con- 
viction of every high-souled being who discerns clearly 
the capabilities of his fellow-creatures and aims at 
rendering them assistance. 

Seeing how girls are, usually, miseducated, forced, 
with the united energies of mother, nurse, teacher, and 
fashion, to repress natural abilities and conform to a 
society-model, we cannot feel surprised at the result, 
viz., scores of " young ladies" one like the other as 
regards barren minds and frivolous ambitions, and 
very few "young women" with well-trained minds 
and noble aims. The average society-experience fol- 
lowed by marriage, does not produce any perceptible 
change in the character of a young woman ; so that, 
when a mother, her ideas and aims are of precisely 
the same tendency as before. If not desirous to be 
thorough in her own acquirements whether of mind 
or manner, if not eager to advance step by step in the 
great work of developing her own character, she can 
do nothing towards the education of her child ; and 
what she, at home, fails to do, no array of teachers 
can subsequently accomplish. The child — whether 
boy or girl — is stamped by the mother's influence 
so effectually that, in the vast majority of instances, 
distinction, mediocrity, goodness, baseness, happiness, 



ISO 



VOICE AND LANGUAGE. 



or misery might be traced to that source. Why could 
not a child in the nursery be taught to speak well — 
clearly, elegantly, forcibly — as readily as to eat, drink r 
and play, with due regard to rules prescribed by 
mother or nurse ? Why could not as much care be 
exercised and as much money expended in choosing 
the first and by far the most important teacher of its 
life-^-the nurse — as in choosing its clothing and toys ? 
Can a child be too early accustomed to hearing 
refined, well-modulated voices, carefully-chosen lan- 
guage, and intelligent conversation? If early impres- 
sions have the value usually attached to them, it might 
be supposed that nothing pertaining to training would 
be deemed of greater importance. But what do we see 
in what are called the best classes of American society? 
We see palatial dwellings, costly clothing, and precious 
gems in abundance, — in brief, all the luxuries and ap- 
purtenances of wealth, — and yet, the heir of all these 
privileges consigned, from his first to probably his 
seventh year, to the almost exclusive care of an ig- 
norant, superstitious servant-girl ! Did we not know 
what custom can do for all of us in subverting natural 
good sense, it would seem incredible that any mother 
of .average understanding, professedly anxious for the 
welfare of her child, could deliberately begin with so 
egregious a mistake, one which eventually will re- 
bound with painful force upon herself, her child, and 
all connected with them. Children would be just as 
prompt to acquire clearness of enunciation and elegance 
of construction, as slovenly, mumbling utterances and 
vulgarity of accent and expression. But the condi- 
tion of obtaining the first valuable possession for 
them would be to secure the services of a suitable 



VOICE AND LANGUAGE. I3I 

attendant during the first seven eventful years, a young 
woman of refinement and good education, who, in all 
those hours when the mother could not be with her 
children, would conscientiously carry out her instruc- 
tions. The nurse should be required merely to attend 
to food, clothing, and similar needs, while the gov- 
erness should be charged with that unintermittent care 
of the mind, morals, and manners of the child which 
the mistress of a luxurious home cannot possibly 
give. Are there not to-day hundreds of young girls, 
fairly educated and well mannered, holding positions 
in business-houses or industrial establishments of 
various kinds, who would gladly accept a position as 
governess? There would probably be but little diffi- 
culty in finding the means of remedying this primal 
and disastrous mistake of our American social life, 
provided mothers themselves were sufficiently im- 
pressed with the necessity of procuring them. "To 
employ language, to speak," says C. C. Felton, "is 
to set in motion the divinest organism of our being. 
With what inexpressible skill is the machinery of 
speech framed together, and adapted part to part! 
The articulating organs; the life-supporting air; the 
mind that sends its orders from the brain, where it sits 
enthroned, along the nerves which set these organs in 
motion; the impulse borne on the wings of the wind, 
sweeping through the intervening space, knocking at 
the porches of the ear, passing along the nerves of 
sensation, and leaving in the presence of another mind 
a bodiless thought, which the flying messenger was 
sent to bear, — how familiar, yet how miraculous, is 
all this! . . . 

"Language is at once the evidence and the memo- 



I3 2 VOICE AND LANGUAGE. 

rial of the universal brotherhood of man. It binds 
with its everlasting chain every nation and race and 
kindred. By articulated speech, thought answers to 
thought, as face answers to face in a glass, and we 
know what passes in the mind of our brother. By 
written speech we record our experiences for the in- 
struction of those who shall come after us, and make 
those books which, in the language of Milton, contain 
'the life-blood of master-spirits laid up for a life after 
life.' 

"Written words are the instruments of communion 
between all races and all lands, the carrier-birds of 
human thought from country to country, from age to 
age, across the dividing and reuniting seas, across the 
abysms of centuries and millenniums. Language em- 
bodies the literature of nations, and so becomes the 
most vivid expression of character. The action, suf- 
fering, and passion of the human race are best read in 
its successive literatures. The actual world, as it has 
been mirrored in the mind of man, and the ideal world 
of art, built upon the foundation of reality, but rising 
high above it, stand before us in the histories, phi- 
losophies, and poetic creations, recorded in the many- 
voiced languages of men." 

And why may not the idea in these eloquent and 
beautiful thoughts be wrought into our daily, hourly 
life? The children bred amid these daily influences 
are to be the future men and women of society; and 
with this thought always paramount, nothing which 
in the most indirect way affects them can be deemed 
unimportant. By listening to the careless, inelegant, 
or painfully crude manner in which most people, 
even in the highest classes, give expression to their 



VOICE AND LANGUAGE. 



133 



thoughts, we can easily comprehend why conversa- 
tion plays so insignificant a part in our social reunions. 
Talking there is, — often in superabundance, — but of so 
rude a kind that susceptible ears and cultured minds 
eagerly seek to escape from its din. Can we blame a 
musician for avoiding the harsh and discordant sounds 
which unskilful players produce from his favorite in- 
strument? If not, neither can we blame one who de- 
lights in the music of the voice for voluntarily closing 
his ears to the disagreeable sounds usually heard. 

"It seems to be recognized," says Mme. de Stael, 
"that Paris is the city of the world where the taste 
and zest for conversation exist in the greatest perfec- 
tion; and that which is called ' le mal da pays} that 
indefinable desire for one's country, a sentiment dis- 
tinct even from the friends left there, may be applied 
specially to that plaisir de causer which the French 
find nowhere in the same degree as in their own 
country. Volney relates that the French emigrants 
during the revolution wished to establish a colony 
and cultivate the land; but every now and then they 
all left their occupations to go, as they said, causer a 
laville; and this city — New Orleans — was six hun- 
dred leagues from their homes. Everywhere in France 
people feel the need of conversation: language is not 
there, as elsewhere, simply a means of communicating 
ideas, sentiments, or business, but an instrument which 
is played upon with pleasure, and which stimulates 
minds just as music or strong liquor does some other 
nations. 

"The charm produced by an animated conversation 
does not consist altogether in the subject ; neither do 
the ideas or the information brought forward give 

12* • 



134 



VOICE AND LANGUAGE. 



it the principal interest; but it arises from a certain 
manner of acting one upon the other, and rapidly re- 
ciprocating pleasure; from speaking as quickly as 
the thought arises, being applauded without effort, and 
permitting the mind to show itself in every shade by 
accent, gesture, and look — in short, producing at 
will those electric flashes which create an equilibrium 
between the extreme vivacity of some people and the 
painful apathy of others." 

De Quincey, too, thinks that "not only the gay 
temperament of the French people, but the particular 
qualities of the French language, which (however 
poor for the higher purposes of passion) is rich be- 
yond all others for purposes of social intercourse, 
prompt them to rapid and vivacious exchange of 
thought." 

Probably none will dispute either the flexibility and 
grace of the French language, or the facility and esprit 
with which the French people adapt it to expression. 
But is it not due to manner as much as to language 
that the French so excel in making conversation 
agreeable and refreshing? 

Every one who likes to talk throws a certain 
sprightliness and elasticity into his language, while 
those who are reticent bring out their words so grudg- 
ingly that they oppress the hearer with languor and 
dulness. Whoever is sluggish in thought and feel- 
ing usually evinces the same characteristic in speech : 
it would seem, therefore, that the temperament and 
culture of the individual affect his language to quite 
as great an extent as his manner. 

In one of those charming letters of Lady Morgan 
written before her marriage, she aims the following 



VOICE AND LANGUAGE. 



135 



sprightly criticism at the lack of conversational talent 
in the English: "I have seen the best and the worst 
of English society; I have dined at the table of a city 
trader, taken tea with the family of a London merchant, 
and supped at Devonshire House, all in one day, and 
I must say, that if there is a people upon earth that 
understand the science of conversation less than an- 
other, it is the English. The quickness, the variety, 
the rapidity of perception and impression, which is 
indispensable to render conversation delightful, is con- 
stitutionally denied to them; like all people of slowly- 
operating mental faculties, and of business pursuits, 
they depend upon memory more than upon sponta- 
neous thought. When the power of, and time for, 
cultivating that retentive faculty is denied, they are 
then hebetes and tiresome, and when it is granted (as 
among the higher classes), the omnipotence of ton is 
so great that every one fears to risk himself. 

"In Ireland it is quite different; our physique, which 
renders us ardent, restless, and fond of change, bids 
defiance to the cultivation of memory; and therefore, 
though we produce men of genius, we never have 
boasted of any man of learning — and so we excel in 
conversation, because of necessity we are obliged to 
do the honours of the amour pro pre of others; we are 
obliged to give and take, for thrown upon excitement, 
we only respond in proportion to the quantity of 
stimulus received. 

" In England, conversation is a game of chess — the 
result of judgment, memory, and deliberation; with 
us it is a game of battledore, and our ideas, like our 
shuttlecocks, are thrown lightly one to the other, 
bounding and rebounding, played more for amuse- 



136 VOICE AND LANGUAGE. 

ment than conquest, and leaving the players equally- 
animated by the game and careless of its results. 
There is a term in England applied to persons popular 
in society, which illustrates what I have said; it is, 
' he (or she) is very amusing] that is, they tell stories 
of a ghost, or an actor, they recite verses, or they 
play tricks, all of which must exclude conversation, 
and it is, in my opinion, the very bane of good society. 
An Englishman will declaim, or he will narrate, or he 
will be silent ; but it is very difficult to get him to 
converse, especially if he is supreme bon ton, or labours 
under the reputation of being a rising man ; but even 
all this, dull as it is, is better than a man who, struck 
by some fatal analogy in what he is saying, imme- 
diately chimes in with the eternal ' that puts, me in 
mind] and then gives you, not an anecdote, but an 
absolute history of something his uncle did, or his 
grandfather said, and then, by some lucky association, 
goes on with stories which have his own obscure 
friends for his heroes and heroines, but have neither 
point, but, humour, nor even moral (usually tagged to 
the end of old ballads). Oh, save me from this, good 
heaven, and I will sustain all else beside!" 

How much of this criticism the English would accept 
as just, and how much we Americans are willing to 
apply to ourselves, depends entirely upon individual 
culture. In every thing pertaining to the esthetics of 
language, our personal standard of fitness and capability 
will decide our appreciation or refutation of criticism. 
A man of limited understanding and coarse tastes would 
resent a correction of pronunciation or grammatical 
construction, as a personal affront, and could not justly 
be censured for his stupidity: whereas a man of in- 



VOICE AND LANGUAGE. 



137 



telligence would appreciate and profit by such a cor- 
rection, even when given by one otherwise his inferior, 
or given rudely instead of courteously. To make 
conversation the source of exquisite delight it is in- 
tended to be, we want neither pedantry, nor philology, 
nor bigotry; neither do we want imitation, formality, 
or affectation: but we do want — and this imperatively 
— clear brains, liberal culture, and refined tastes. We 
want men and women to be convinced that society is 
as great a need for their children as food and clothing ; 
and that the chief charm of that society is the inter- 
change — in its most extended and elevated sense — of 
thought, sentiment, and opinion. If cultured ears are 
to be tortured by gross barbarities, they will not listen 
to even the wisest utterances, and can hardly be repri- 
manded for such refusal. Not finding those voices 
whose action produces the delicious harmony they 
understand and crave, they are right in avoiding the 
discordant sounds which not only cause positive pain, 
but injure the native delicacy of their own organs. 
What nature means by bestowing senses so acute that 
they must inevitably suffer from the imperfect satisfac- 
tion they receive, cannot perhaps be fully understood: 
but by observing the keen enjoyment derived from such 
partial gratification as is vouchsafed, we attain to a very 
clear conception of the possibilities as yet dormant in 
the human organization. Consequently, he whose eye 
is capable of both an extended range and of close 
inspection has no cause for discontent; for if this 
power of vision augments the number of objects to 
be received and examined, it yields also a rich harvest 
of knowledge and experience. In the same manner 
he whose ear is endowed with acute susceptibility to 



1 38 VOICE AND LANGUAGE. 

tone, modulation, expression, and general harmony, 
dare not count the pain he endures from rude, un- 
tutored voices, because of the thorough consciousness 
of appreciation and enjoyment afforded in other direc- 
tions by that very susceptibility. 

The same culture of speech which in private life 
and in society so enchants the ear, in public life works 
those miracles of change called conviction, persuasion, 
awaking, thrilling, swaying, subduing. In Shelley's 
translation of "The Banquet of Plato," Alcibiades says 
of Socrates : " I will begin the praise of Socrates by 
comparing him to a certain statue. Perhaps he will 
think that this statue is introduced for the sake of 
ridicule, but I assure you that it is necessary for the 
illustration of truth. I assert, then, that Socrates is 
exactly like those Silenuses that sit in the sculptors' 
shops, and which are carved holding flutes or pipes, 
but which, when divided in two, are found to con- 
tain withinside the images of the gods. I assert that 
Socrates is like the satyr Marsyas. That your form 
and appearance are like these satyrs', I think that even 
you will not venture to deny ; and how like you are 
to them in all other things, now hear. Are you not 
scornful and petulant ? If you deny this I will bring 
witnesses. Are you not a piper, and far more won- 
derful a one than he ? For Marsyas, and whoever 
now pipes the music that he taught, for that music 
which is of Heaven, and described as being taught 
by Marsyas, enchants men through the power of the 
mouth. For if any musician, be he skilful or not, 
awakens this music, it alone enables him to retain the 
minds of men, and from the divinity of its nature 
makes evident those who are in want of the gods and 



VOICE AND LANGUAGE. 139 

initiation. You differ only from Marsyas in this cir- 
cumstance, that you effect without instruments, by 
mere words, all that he can do. For when we hear 
Pericles, or any other accomplished orator, deliver a 
discourse, no one, as it were, cares any thing about it. 
But when any one hears you, or even your words 
related by another, though ever so rude and unskilful 
a speaker, be that person a woman, man or child, we 
are struck and retained, as it were, by the discourse 
clinging to our mind. If I was not afraid that I am a 
great deal too drunk, I would confirm to you by an 
oath the strange effects which I assure you I have 
suffered from his words, and suffer still ; for when I 
hear him speak, my heart leaps up far more than the 
hearts of those who celebrate the Corybantic mys- 
teries ; my tears are poured out as he talks, a thing 
I have seen happen to many others besides myself. I 
have heard Pericles and other excellent orators, and 
have been pleased with their discourses, but I suffered 
nothing of this kind ; nor was my soul ever on those 
occasions disturbed and filled with self-reproach, as if 
it were slavishly laid prostrate. But this Marsyas here 
has often affected me in the way I describe, until the 
life which I lead seemed hardly worth living. Do not 
deny it, Socrates, for I well know that if even now I 
chose to listen to you, I could not resist, but should 
again suffer the same effects. For, my friends, he 
forces me to confess that while I myself am still in 
want of many things, I neglect my own necessities, 
and attend to those of the Athenians. I stop my ears, 
therefore, as from the Syrens, and flee away as fast as 
possible, that I may not sit down beside him and grow 
old in listening to his talk. For this man has reduced 



140 



VOICE AND LANGUAGE. 



me to feel the sentiment of shame, which I imagine 
no one would readily believe was in me; he also in- 
spires me with remorse and awe. For I feel in his 
presence my incapacity of refuting what he says, or 
of refusing to do that which -he directs ; but when I 
depart from him, the glory which the multitude con- 
fers overwhelms me. I escape, therefore, and hide 
myself from him, and when I see him I am over- 
whelmed with humiliation, because I have neglected 
to do what I have confessed to him ought to be done ; 
and often and often have I wished that he were no 
longer to be seen among men. But if that were to 
happen, I well know that I should suffer far greater 
pain ; so that where I can turn, or what I can do with 
this man, I know not. All this have I and many 
others suffered from the pipings of this satyr. And 
observe, how like he is to what I said, and what a 
wonderful power he possesses. Know that there is 
not one of you who is aware of the real nature of 
Socrates; but since I have begun, I will make him 
plain to you. You observe how passionately Socrates 
affects the intimacy of those who are beautiful, and 
how ignorant he professes himself to be ; appearances 
in themselves excessively Silenic. This, my friends, 
is the external form with which, like one of the sculp- 
tured Sileni, he has clothed himself; for if you open 
him, you will find within admirable temperance and 
wisdom. For he cares not for mere beauty, but de- 
spises more than any one can imagine all external 
possessions, whether it be beauty, or wealth, or glory, 
or any other thing for which the multitude felicitates 
the possessor. He esteems these things and us who 
honour them, as nothing, and lives among men, making 



VOICE AND LANGUAGE. 



141 



all the objects of their admiration the playthings of 
his irony. But I know not if any one of you have 
ever seen the divine images which are within, when 
he has been opened and is serious. I have seen them, 
and they are so supremely beautiful, so golden, so 
divine, and wonderful, that every thing which Socrates 
commands surely ought to be obeyed, even like the 
voice of a God." 

And does not humanity gladly obey such a voice? 
Can any thing, save mental or moral obtuseness, resist 
the eloquence which comes direct from a soul charged 
with incorruptible honor and glowing with the fervor 
of conviction ? The ablest and noblest minds of 
every age unite in doing willing homage to illustrious 
masters of speech, and in recording upon the tablets 
of history the inspiring truth that the divine gift of 
eloquence is not incompatible with lustrous purity of 
character. 



13 



V. 

WHO ARE WICKED? 



The character of Christ is the exposition of my religion, my Chris- 
tianity. It is my Confession of Faith. — W. H. Furness. 

La morale est un epanouissement de verites. Contempler mene a 
agir. L'absolu doit etre pratique. II faut que 1' ideal soit respirable, 
potable et mangeable a 1' esprit humain. — Victor Hugo. 



Sir Charles Morgan, writing to Miss Owenson (after- 
wards Lady Morgan), says: "The physical sciences all 
consist in facts and reasoning on facts, totally uncon- 
nected zvith morals, and, as Chamfort says, ' Le monde 
physique parait l'ouvrage d'un etre parfait et bon, mais 
le monde moral parait etre le produit des caprices d'un 
diable devenu fou.' The mind, then, perpetually ab- 
stracted from the contemplation of this influence, stimu- 
lated by brilliant discoveries, and absorbed in the con- 
sideration of beautiful, well-arranged and constant laws, 
is enlarged to pleasurable emotion, at the same time that 
it rejoices in the consciousness of its increased powers 
over the natural world. Those pursuits, on the con- 
trary, which have been supposed the most to influence 
happiness and to tame the tiger in our nature, — the 
moral and metaphysical sciences, belles-lettres, and the 
142 



WHO ARE WICKED? I43 

fine arts, — are, in my opinion, of much more doubtful 
efficacy. Though their influence, when opposed to 
the passions, is really as nothing (indeed, they too 
often but co-operate with them in corrupting the 
heart), yet they cast a sort of splendour about vice by 
the refinement they create; and render man, if not a 
better animal, yet certainly a less horrible animal. 
As to the question whether humanity is bettered by 
the multiplying wants, and thereby drawing tighter 
the social bonds and making us more dependent on 
each other, on police and on government, we cannot 
decide, the advantages and disadvantages of each state 
are so little comparable ; most probably, what is lost 
on the side of liberty is gained in security and the 
petty enjoyments which by their repetition become 
important, so that, on the whole, one age is nearly 
on a par with another in this respect. As for the 
influence of these pursuits on the cidtivator of them, 
there can, in my opinion, be hardly a dispute ; he is 
to all intents and purposes a victim immolated for 
the public for which he labours. In morality, the mind 
always bent upon a gloomy and shaded system of 
things, is either tortured in making stubborn fact bend 
to graduate with religions prejudices ; or, if forced to 
abandon these, lost in seas of endless speculation; 
consciously feeling actually existing evil y and perfectly 
skeptical to future good. These sciences, too, gener- 
ally are connected with a cultivated imagination, the 
greatest curse in itself to its unfortunate possessor. 
Imagination, always at variance with reason and 
truth, delights in exaggeration and dwells most con- 
stantly on what affects the passions. Its food, its 
occupation, is pain ; then, again, how constant is that 



I 4 4 WH0 ARE KICKED? 

sickly squeamishness of taste which finds nothing to 
admire, nothing to approve ; that sees the paucity of 
our conceptions and the endless repetition of them. 
In point of fact, I have rarely seen poets, painters, or 
musicians (I mean composers), happy men." 

With such a conception of morality and imagina- 
tion it is no wonder Sir Charles thinks physics better 
worth studying than ethics or esthetics: but although 
his views present many interesting suggestions and 
from one side are true, they cannot be admitted as 
sound and trustworthy doctrines. Nature is never 
partial or undecided, and is always ready to demon- 
strate the principles she inculcates in mankind : con- 
sequently, there can be no hesitation in affirming that 
the moral sciences — no less than the physical — "all 
consist in facts and reasoning on facts." 

Who can doubt that habits contracted or passions 
indulged bring forth results positive and unchange- 
able, the same amid every variety of condition and 
circumstance, the same in every generation? Nothing 
in physical science is more certain than the conse- 
quences of good or bad conduct; and however forcible 
Chamfort's illustration of the contrast between the 
two worlds — the physical and the ethical — it must 
be utterly repudiated as a belief. That the physical 
sciences are more easily comprehended than the 
ethical will not be disputed, the things of which the 
senses take cognizance being always more prompt to 
take root than those which may be revolved in the 
mind only. i 

To become proficient in the anatomy of the body 
would require far less breadth of intellect than to be- 
come a metaphysician ; on the other hand, owing to 



WHO ARE WICKED? 145 

the close similarity of nature's laws, a student of ethics 
would have but little difficulty in mastering the prin- 
ciples of physics, although the facts and details would 
undoubtedly demand long and assiduous application. 

A mind habituated to analysis in one direction 
quickly acquires the facility of using it in others, a 
knowledge of general principles qualifying it to pre- 
dict results with unerring certainty. To specify causes 
for a given course of conduct would lead to tiresome 
discussion: but, just as in the physical sciences we 
find certain established facts upon which to erect sys- 
tems, so in ethics and esthetics the acquisition of one 
truth explains many others, enabling the mind thus 
trained to see its subject as distinctly as if it were 
solid rock, and to believe its deductions as reliable as 
those from light or sound. 

In a world where ideas upon morality differ so 
widely, it is often difficult to arrive at just conclusions 
concerning our own principles or actions; each being, 
however, is so deeply interested in the question that 
he cannot refrain from making the attempt. 

For the special code of morals of the country in 
which we chance to live, we are no more responsible 
than for the features of the landscape, or the archi- 
tecture of the buildings. We find certain established 
laws, customs, and opinions, all claiming morality as 
a basis ; we see that by obeying these laws and con- 
forming to these customs we gain respect, and that 
by a contrary course we forfeit it. Hence, to live 
easily and comfortably we must conform to what we 
find existing, whether in morality, government, or 
society. As soon as we refuse to acknowledge the 
commonly accepted standard and prefer to abide by 

13* • 



I4 6 WHO ARE WICKED? 

that discovered in our own minds, we must prepare for 
opposition, contumely, and isolation. Before acting, 
then, upon our own ideas and impulses, regardless of 
public opinion, loss of reputation, and consequences, 
we must count the cost and balance it carefully with 
our firmness and courage. 

No being who reflects can deem it strange that 
people generally should be so perplexed as to the 
nature of right and wrong. Even if of enlightened 
minds, forced to believe that nature and conscience 
are higher authorities than the world's opinion, they 
must, nevertheless, be fully alive to the immense 
disadvantage of living at variance with their fellow- 
beings. 

By glancing, however, at man's most striking char- 
acteristics and needs we are enabled to gain some 
light upon this obscure but momentous subject. The 
granting that he is pre-eminently social in taste and 
feeling assumes that there must be communities 
formed, laws framed, and obedience enforced, all these 
being essential to the formation of society: but even 
after we are pledged to this statement, there are so 
many obstacles and modifications apparent to reason 
that we are restless and ill at ease instead of calm in 
the acquiescence. 

If, however, we find the acquisition of other 
branches of knowledge attended with fatigue and 
discomfort, and seem to ourselves more and more 
ignorant the farther we go, it should hardly appear 
strange that morality cannot be fully comprehended 
after a few years of average assiduity. Supposing 
that from the beginning of conscious thought we find 
ourselves out of harmony with things visible and ac- 



WHO ARE WICKED? 



H7 



cepted by others, see our most dearly-cherished sen- 
timents frowned upon, and hear our highest convic- 
tions denounced as heretical ; and yet, while striving 
to repress our natural self, feel ourselves growing 
downward instead of upward, — what must be the de- 
duction? 

Surely we cannot doubt that the life thus led is 
abnormal, unreal, and unwise, and that wickedness 
rather than goodness would be the probable out- 
growth. The doing of that which involves the sacri- 
fice of our best thoughts and noblest feelings, is 
unquestionably immoral and reprehensible, far more 
so than the mere refraining from certain acts which 
would be punishable by social statutes. 

When the pessimist assures us that all human 
beings are inclined to be wicked, and asks, " How 
many 'good' people, if assured that no ill conse- 
quences — loss of name, of position, or of respect — 
would follow infringements upon the moral code of 
their country, would be found adhering to virtue for 
its own sake?" — when he avers, furthermore, that 
there is but little difference between the saint who, 
when his personal safety is assured, has a keen appre- 
ciation of forbidden fruit, and the sinner who boldly 
avows his tastes and boldly gratifies them, — what can 
we reply? 

While unable to refute the assertion that a very 
large proportion of mankind seem strongly inclined 
towards wickedness rather than goodness, it must be 
stoutly maintained that the moral system upon which 
civilization rests depends mainly upon the distinction 
between sin of thought and sin of deed. 

In the one case, the wrong that presents itself is 



1 48 WHO ARE WICKED? 

repulsed, and the victor is encouraged, strengthened, 
elevated ; that day and all other days are the better 
for his resistance; he himself and all who come under 
his influence are thereby benefited. 
. Whereas, in the sin of deed, the perpetrator becomes 
so enervated or so hardened as to be rendered unfit 
even for his ordinary work. Not only is its direct 
effect disastrous, but the future consequences are 
incalculable and wide-spread. Upon the individual 
himself the effect may be to injure irremediably a 
moral nature heretofore sound; and if of a suscepti- 
ble temperament, the stain incurred may lead him to 
insanity or self-destruction. 

While thought may justly be considered the fore- 
runner of deed, the distance between them must not 
be forgotten. The conception of evil brings painful 
regrets and increased watchfulness. The commission 
of evil not only inflicts suffering upon others, but causes 
also a personal remorse, which poisons existence. 

Of the fact that many people are born with weak 
minds and evil propensities, our own senses furnish 
daily painful proof. 

Hereditary traits produce a realization of the mys- 
tery of being more intense, probably, than any other 
we are called upon to consider. " Man," says Emer- 
son, " is physically as well as metaphysically a thing 
of shreds and patches, borrowed unequally from good 
and bad ancestors, and a misfit from the start." 

Undisputed as it is that habits of body and mind, 
no less than form or feature, are transmitted from 
generation to generation, it by no means permits the 
deduction that wrong-doing is thereby justified. 

Temptation is never given beyond the strength of 



WHO ARE WICKED? 



149 



the tempted, and he who succumbs must endure the 
penalty of his folly. Inherited tastes or qualities must, 
undoubtedly, strongly influence us, but they remain, 
nevertheless, subordinate to reason. With this intact, 
there can be no false standard of honor, no labor lost, 
no character-failure ; and however insignificant an in- 
dividual's career may appear to the world, he himself 
knows it to be the embodiment of his mind's best 
conception. To what degree the intellect influences 
morality, is a question upon which the world's teachers 
hold such conflicting opinions that no course is left 
open to the individual learner save to listen — after all 
manner of external counsel has been sought — to his 
own judgment. Without intellect man is nothing; 
with it he may become the noblest of all created things. 
"All our moral feelings," says Ruskin, "are so in- 
terwoven with our intellectual powers, that we cannot 
affect the one without in some degree addressing the 
other ; and in all high ideas of beauty it is more than 
probable that much of the pleasure depends on delicate 
and untraceable perceptions of fitness, propriety, and 
relation, which are purely intellectual, and through 
which we arrive at our noblest ideas of what is com- 
monly and rightly called ' intellectual beauty.' Ideas 
of beauty are among the noblest which can be pre- 
sented to the human mind, invariably exalting and 
purifying it according to their degree. And it would 
appear that we are intended by the Deity to be con- 
stantly under their influence, because there is not 
one single object in nature which is not capable of 
conveying them, and which to the rightly-perceiving 
mind does not present an incalculably greater number 
of beautiful than of deformed parts." 



150 WHO ARE WICKED? 

From this it would appear that for a noble concep- 
tion of religion the idea of beauty is indispensable. 
Are we not indeed worshipping in the very truest 
sense when the mind is exalted by the contemplation 
of a beautiful object? Whether that object be sun, 
moon, star, mountain, lake, or cataract, or human form 
and features, matters little; the one important fact 
being, the effect upon our mind. And this same 
worship is produced in a much more intense degree 
by intellectual and moral beauties. Are there not 
many instances on record where people have bowed 
in reverence and love before the poet, artist, or patriot 
whom they have never seen ? And what is this but 
the highest form of moral worship, one which shows 
more forcibly perhaps than any other fact in nature 
the capability of man for a noble destiny? 

To appreciate physical beauty requires certain per- 
ceptive qualities of mind far above the ordinary vulgar 
construction expressed by the word sensual. Our 
senses are not given us to be despised and ill treated, 
but for wise and beneficent purposes ; and we cannot 
live a full and perfect life without giving them due 
gratification and culture. 

But to appreciate moral beauty demands qualities 
of a grade so much higher that the majority can 
scarcely comprehend their nature, and vainly try to 
conceal their inefficiency by ridiculing or professing 
to undervalue such qualities. To try to explain to a 
dull mind why we admire a certain book or picture 
or heroic trait of character, would be wholly useless: 
the capability requisite for the appreciation wanting, 
neither patience nor energy can supply the deficiency. 

A fine moral sense enables us to detect both beauties 



WHO ARE WICKED 



151 



and defects with a quickness which seems no less 
surprising to ourselves than to others : by trusting it 
implicitly we are drawn into relations of closest in- 
timacy with those of like character, — whether living 
or dead, known personally or not, — relations which 
no earthly vicissitude can change; or, we are warned 
not to yield our confidence to those whose difference 
of moral sense establishes a barrier which neither law 
nor religion can overcome. 

Amid the follies consequent upon human perversity, 
the intellect may, it is true, become disordered and 
unreliable; but, in its normal condition, reason enables 
us to distinguish truth from falsehood, conviction 
from tradition, and often proves that much-vaunted 
virtue is less an evidence of intrinsic worth of char- 
acter, than of customs peculiar to an age or people. 
Moreover, reason finds no resting-place in statutes 
framed by fallible men, at best recognizing them as 
simply a means of inspiring the alternate fear and 
protection required by conflicting human interests. 
In estimating the gifts bestowed upon man, reason 
should have the highest valuation. Does not thought 
precede action? A project, whether good or bad, 
must be generated in the brain, and receive there the 
credentials which enable it to flourish in word, act, or 
influence. Each possibility that presents itself there 
should be hailed as a new creation, a sign of greater 
than has gone before, a foretaste of reality. It im- 
ports little in which direction such a possibility tends, 
whether philanthropic, utilitarian, or esthetic. Its 
advent is the great fact to be welcomed with warmth 
and gratitude. 

To a great extent, therefore, intellect is to be held 



152 



WHO ARE WICKED? 



responsible for violations of conscience. In an age of 
boasted enlightenment it is not enough to say, "such 
a man is immoral:" humanity bids us discover what 
makes him so, by what inherent or acquired weakness 
he has become thus deformed. 

Does this belief lead to the inference that there is 
no absolute evil in the world ? Undoubtedly : and this 
inference is drawn from the fact that out of the worst 
calamities or crimes, good is eventually deduced. 

Without despotism we should have no conception 
of liberty or patriotism. From intemperance come the 
sternest lessons and the noblest examples of sobriety. 
Luxury surfeits men with things evanescent, and 
drives them into reflection and simplicity of living. 
Crime reveals the tendencies of human nature, making 
us realize, as nothing else could, the necessity of 
restraining appetites and passions. War teaches na- 
tions to respect each other's rights, and demonstrates 
the existence of extraordinary virtues in individuals 
previously considered worthless members of a com- 
munity. 

Probably all men are conscious of possessing better 
qualities than they show, and even the worst vaguely 
feel themselves unhappy in their lawlessness. The 
demon is only the god perverted, and is far more 
dreaded than need be. 

Through ignorance as to the cause of their immo- 
rality, vast numbers of men and women are debarred 
from lives of happy utility and compelled to undergo 
intense suffering. Investigation proves that corrup- 
tion of any kind has its origin in slight causes, such as 
are essentially human, and which neither religion nor 
legislation can eradicate : consequently, when the mind 



WHO ARE WICKED? 



153 



is well balanced there is less liability to moral trans- 
gression. 

No scheme has ever been devised by which good- 
ness may be raised from badness, or a desire for knowl- 
edge kindled in minds deadened by generations of 
sloth and stupidity. 

To learn, then, of what excesses men and women 
are capable when unrestrained by education, church, 
or society, awakens a profound sympathy for those 
who through some inscrutable dispensation have been 
deprived of those protective influences. Examined 
through an ethical lens, human beings are more alike 
than is generally supposed. In the convict and in the 
law-abiding citizen are found similar passions and 
capabilities; hence, criminals of intelligence should 
receive much severer punishment than those steeped 
in ignorance. Does it not frequently happen that men 
are wicked because their affections or energies are not 
legitimately employed? Surely such cases deserve 
the most careful treatment humanity can suggest, one 
which aims less at the chaining or destroying of the 
criminal than at preventing his misdeeds and reform- 
ing his character. Single acts of passion or depravity 
should not be deemed sufficient cause for removing 
the transgressor from every good influence and thrust- 
ing him into the society of those so much worse than 
himself that they scoff at his initiatory crime because 
of its tameness and puerility. 

11 1 might have committed crime, for it has been in 
my heart a hundred times," is a confession which mul- 
titudes of respectable men and women could make 
were it not for the stern prohibition of spiritual pride. 
Moreover, in the fact that thousands of crimes escape 

*4 1 



154 WHO ARE WICKED? 

the hands of the law, may be seen proof that people 
may be sinners and yet continue to live in their usual 
places*and perform their usual duties. 

That it is natural to feel indignant at the commis- 
sion of crimes which destroy life, or plunge families 
into desolation, and to desire swift punishment for the 
criminals, every one will admit ; but indignation and 
desire for vengeance need at all times the control of 
reason, and by contemplating the struggles it costs 
even the most intellectual and the most conscientious 
to keep their principles intact, we learn to look with 
sentiments of profound commiseration upon those who 
are forced to engage in the same conflict without equal 
means of defence. 

Morally speaking, no man can fairly judge another. 
Each might truly say; In my own conduct what to 
others may appear a trivial fault, may to my own con- 
science be as positive a violation of right as a crime 
in another ; and what in another is execrated as a crime 
in the ordinary sense, may be less a result of depravity 
than of ignorance or passion. 

The relative nature of " goodness " and of " badness' r 
has among thinkers long been an acknowledged fact, 
although among thoughtless people there is a strange 
willingness to accept a fashion analogous to that reg- 
ulating costume or manner. Hence, just as we see 
many oddly-shaped and useless garments brought into 
vogue, so, many extraordinary opinions grow into 
religious beliefs, and saints and sinners are portioned 
off with startling promptitude according to the bigotry 
of sect or the prejudice of class. 

Certain actions, harmless for some people, for others 
differently situated may be positively wrong. 



WHO ARE WICKED? 155 

How then, it might be asked, can there be a just 
discrimination between this vexed question of right 
and wrong? To which the reply might be: Begin- 
ning with the individual, his organization and circum- 
stances decide unequivocally for him what may or may 
not be touched. What for one man is a simply con- 
vivial evening, for another is an orgie; or he may be 
absolutely faithful in ordinary duties while within he is 
conscious of a moral flaw which destroys his peace. 

To state the chief obstructions to sound morality 
would rightly claim a volume, but in desultory chap- 
ters there can appear only shadows of thought and 
feeling. In answer to the question, " Who are 
wicked?" might be answered: Self-indulgent people 
— those who yield to the thought, habit, or impulse 
which impairs usefulness, fosters selfishness, and pre- 
pares the way for greater degeneration. A character 
thus undermined is utterly incapable of resisting even 
casual temptation, and may be expected to take any 
downward step whatsoever. 

Save in exceptional cases where by the law of in- 
heritance a being is cruelly stamped at birth, moral 
degeneration announces its approach by unmistakable 
warnings, which permit ample time for resistance. 
The first indication, it is true, may be so slight, so 
little different from the ordinary state, as hardly to be 
noticed. No noise, no angry remonstrance, no posi- 
tive hindrance, testifies to the presence of the enemy. 
But sensitive souls are speedily aware of the least 
change in thought or feeling, and know from the first 
symptoms what others know only after the malady has 
assumed a marked character. 

On the other hand, people of susceptibility and re- 



56 



WHO ARE WICKED? 



fmement are much more liable to be tempted by self- 
indulgence than those who are coarse and dull. Imagi- 
nation, especially, is a gift accompanied by countless 
dangers, unless reason be strong enough to curb its 
flights: its power of beautifying even common objects 
increases the number and persistency of temptations, 
and it is ever fertile in suggesting ingenious ways of 
escaping their consequences. 

It cannot be doubted, however, that an imaginative 
mind has a far clearer perception of personal defects 
and transgressions than a prosaic one. To the imagi- 
native man, dominated by passion, or — what is no less 
tyrannical — habit, there come moments of revelation 
in which his egregious folly is made so manifest that 
the pleasurable emotion or sensation for which con- 
science has been violated, loses its vitality. Distinctly, 
as in a vision, he beholds the dread spirit which in an 
evil hour was admitted into the citadel of his nature ; 
realizes the deplorable state to w T hich it has reduced 
him, feels how certainly it will prove his ruin, and yet 
knows himself morally unable to overcome the cause 
of his despair. With what deep humiliation he recog- 
nizes in his daily conduct a thousand-times-repeated 
excess, or avows the bitter truth that the life which 
might have been honorable and happy has through 
one pitiful weakness been. completely wrecked ! Like 
a dead weight upon the soul, such a consciousness 
first oppresses and then tortures through the ever- 
present truth that relief from any outward source 
is impossible. After excessive strain the innate moral 
force becomes exhausted, and virtue may be seen and 
admired when the power to attain it is forever gone: 
moreover, the knowledge of its original vigor serves 



WHO ARE WICKED? 



157 



only to augment the poignancy of regret. Dreading 
temptation, and yet conscious of verging towards it, 
aware that both reason and feeling have lost their in- 
stinctive horror of evil, it is not strange that life should 
become replete with discontent and misery. 

Like a sick man longing to do the things for which 
he has no strength, so one morally disabled realizes 
his inability to cope with those situations and contin- 
gencies which once were so easy of control. 

Complex as human nature is, there is, nevertheless, 
in every soul a unity so simple that the faintest degree 
of intelligence suffices for its comprehension. This 
unity is Conscience. Given as a special means of 
guidance and protection, when duly cared for it be- 
comes infallible, the connecting link between man and 
infinity. To preserve it intact, the highest moments of 
intellectual activity should be devoted to its interests. 
When granted full development it acquires that sub- 
limity of mien before which cowardice, frivolity, and 
vice stand abashed ; that intensity of action which 
forces admiration even from the bitterest of enemies. 
The most pitiable of sinners is he who has conscience 
and will unevenly balanced, the latter not strong 
enough to control imagination and appetite, the former 
quick to feel isolation and suffer the consequences. 
Such a man passes what by courtesy he calls his life 
in alternate sinning and repenting: too weak to do 
the good he sees, too timid to enjoy the bad he takes, 
too conscientious to be satisfied with his indefinite 
position, he drifts along incapable of giving assistance 
or pleasure to others, and a hopeless burden to him- 
self. Balzac says of one of his characters in " Illu- 
sions Perdues :" " Lucien had repented so many times 

14* 



i 5 8 



WHO ARE WICKED? 



during the past eighteen months, that his repentance, 
however violent, came to have no greater value than 
that of a scene admirably acted, and acted moreover 
in good faith." Repentance may thus become a mere 
emotion, a barren wish, a periodical outburst of regret 
and desire without the slightest beneficial result. In 
the world such a character excites more contempt than 
pity, but the clear perception of weakness or sin stirs 
a reflective mind to investigation: perceiving that 
men are what they are through such a multiplicity 
of causes, he cannot look with contempt upon any 
form of humanity. 

One who devotes the same honesty and fearlessness 
to the study of ethics as to that of other sciences, is 
not astonished that wickedness is so rife, at times in- 
deed is even inclined to think that men individually 
are not accountable for their follies and inconsistencies. 

As regards the actual amount of intellect or con- 
science given them by nature, they are not; but we 
cannot forget that temptation comes to them in pro- 
portion to their calibre: consequently, with these as 
with more gifted men it is not ignorance but self- 
indulgence which is at the root of evil-doing. 

"The fate which oppresses us," says O. B. Froth- 
ingham, "is the sluggishness of our spirit. By en- 
largement and cultivation of our activity we change 
ourselves into Fate. Every thing seems to stream in 
upon us because we do not stream out. We are nega- 
tive because we choose to be so; the more positive we 
become, the more negative will the world around us 
be, until at last there is no more negative and we are 
all in all." The revelation made to the soul in the 
highest hour of destiny is the one to be accepted as 



WHO ARE WICKED? 1 59 

the arbiter of destiny, and until the actual life be in 
unison with that revelation, peace of mind will be an 
impossibility. 

Many people complain that they have no time to 
investigate this problem called morality; or, that 
dwelling much upon the difficult questions com- 
prised in the terms goodness, badness, virtue, and 
vice plunges them into a kind of despair. And yet, 
without such investigation how can any being live 
and act justly ? To assert that the soul's organization 
must be studied before good is to result from human 
lives, would be as idle as to affirm that there can be 
no health without medical science, no music without 
instruction, no love of nature without art. The sound 
condition of an organ, as every one knows, is proved 
by forgetfulness of its existence: in the same manner 
there are many fresh young souls who live beautiful 
lives unconsciously. But, enchanting as is the aspect 
of youthful innocence, this phase cannot last; and 
maturity brings an array of facts and enigmas so 
startling that their study becomes an imperative need. 

In the moral as well as in the material world, his- 
tory is made by disturbances, conflicts, experiences, 
all that turmoil which brings the secret springs of 
action to light and urges men to contemplation, 
analysis, and action. Were mortals immaculate, they 
could hardly comprehend the beauty of holiness. 

But if, as explorers of morality announce, they are 
continually encountering fresh perplexities and deeper 
mysteries, may there not be risk in permitting the 
mind to dwell upon the subtle questions of cause and 
effect which these explorations are sure to awaken ? 

To those who study nature merely to find justifica- 



160 WHO ARE WICKED? 

tion for the indulgence of personal foibles, undoubt- 
edly there would be risk; but those who amid all 
their researches keep in view a noble aim, learn that 
life is many-sided, offering exhaustless opportunities 
for thought, action, increase of knowledge, and per- 
fection of character. Precisely then, as every new 
discovery in physical science, from the lowest form 
of vegetable life to the remotest nebula, enriches the 
mind and enhances its reverence for creation, so the 
study of ethics augments the resources of the soul 
and facilitates emancipation from materialism. In the 
words of Emerson, " we need not fear that we can 
lose any thing by the progress of the soul. The soul 
can be trusted to the end." 

Investigation is never wasted, and however meagre 
the immediate result, it turns the mind from ignoble 
pursuits and brings it within the jurisdiction of pro- 
gress. 

We must be grateful for glimpses of Truth, even 
when unable to seize and hold her. Knowledge, how- 
ever imperfect or partially acted upon, brings a vivid 
sense of satisfaction ; for, if we cannot at this moment 
be what we wish, we may dwell with delight up'on 
the idea of future excellence. 

A timid, self-distrustful character contemplating men 
and things, is prone to regard himself as so utterly 
insignificant that he almost wonders at his own desire 
for progress. Times innumerable he is tempted to 
exclaim : Why this unrest? Of what avail this striving 
after the impossible, this hunger for perfection? If 
the goal I aim at cannot, even after every imaginable 
sacrifice, be reached, why am I not justified in drinking 
the cup of pleasure which each day presents? 



WHO ARE WICKED? 161 

By the power of reflection, however, he discerns 
sundry weighty reasons why he should not yield to 
this natural impulse. 

One life helps or hinders all other lives; one wrong 
act begins with ourselves but ends we know not where. 
Wishing to learn the worth of personality, our own 
past will show us what lessons of wisdom or folly 
were acquired from human companionship or written 
thoughts. Those who have safely passed through 
many painful experiences can look back and gather in 
many facts and principles whereby they may benefit 
those who are to follow in the same track. For, while 
human lives, externally, are widely different, the inner 
discipline is in all men very similar. 

The novice in moral science cannot help a feeling 
of surprise, almost a suspicion of unfairness, in observ- 
ing that some people, by no means the most deserving 
ones, escape severe trials and pass through life 
smoothly and pleasantly; that in these unequal dis- 
tributions of fortune the good are often far less gen- 
erously treated than the wicked; sometimes indeed 
when witnessing the struggles of men of science or 
art to keep the intellect out of the vortex of worldly 
cares, it seems as if nature intended that the great ones 
of the earth should never be in a state of physical or 
mental comfort. 

But upon reaching a higher grade of thought, the 
student finds that he dare not rest content with a 
superficial judgment of nature: the main point being, 
not whether we possess or can do a certain number of 
things, but whether we have a true appreciation of life 
itself. 

What if a man have a thorough appreciation of this 



162 WHO ARE WICKED? 

boon and yet through lack of actual comforts be 
rendered unfit to pursue high aims? again asks the 
novice. 

That such cases exist, cannot be denied, replies the 
student, but at the same time it must not be forgotten 
that men for the most part crave infinitely more than 
positive needs; if not for themselves it is for family or 
appearances that they strive to attain a material con- 
dition wholly incompatible with a scientific or intel- 
lectual career. 

Justly considered, how few of the world's goods are 
essential to the man or woman who is absorbed in a 
noble work! 

Viewed in the abstract, comfort and luxury might 
be called the two bitterest opponents of human pro- 
gress. 

Who would voluntarily choose a lonely, isolated 
life ? Yet from enforced isolation have come some of 
the divinest strains of poetry and some of the strong- 
est deductions of reason that the world has ever heard. 
Who would accept sorrow as the price of fame ? Yet 
from sorrow have sprung deeds that immortalized the 
doer. Who, were there any chance of escape, or even 
were he assured of a nobler character-development 
than could be obtained by any other discipline, would 
submit to uncongenial companionship ? Yet through 
companionship that chafed the soul wellnigh to frenzy 
men have discovered in themselves abilities before 
wholly unsuspected, and which otherwise would have 
lain for ever dormant. Happily for the race, the petty 
evasions of the individual count but little in the great 
system of progress, and worthless plans are ruthlessly 
sacrificed by fate for the unfolding of some higher de- 



WHO ARE WICKED? 1 63 

sign. If it be deemed that such a view of life lessens 
responsibility, and tends to that fatalism which regards 
even despotism and crime as indispensable conditions 
of existence, it must at the same time be remembered 
that there is a wide difference between the fatalism of 
ignorance and the acquiescence of enlightenment. 
The first has no aim beyond a material existence, 
and is content because unaware of better things ; the 
second is that submission to the inevitable which 
proceeds not from fear or inertia, but from a firm 
persuasion that in the end good will ensue. 

What is righteousness ? what is wickedness ? are 
questions upon which the moral sentiment of each 
country, community, and sect gives forth very definite 
opinions, while individuals judge according to per- 
sonal reason and feeling. Righteousness seems to be 
an embodiment of those spiritual attributes which we 
call self-control and aspiration. These, of course, can- 
not be produced at will, but result spontaneously from 
training and experience, both in the individual himself 
and in his progenitors. Where a sound spirituality 
exists, it would be as impossible to cease searching 
after perfection as it would be to rest content in sloth 
and ignorance. Whatever tends to weaken, distract, 
or dissipate natural energy is instinctively avoided, 
and all the faculties are made to concentrate in a 
noble aim. In such a nature the mere suggestion of 
evil within, causes as great a shock as the commis- 
sion of it by another; every outward ill is regarded 
as trivial compared to moral discrepancies ; and the 
heaviest calamity can be calmly endured if the con- 
science is acquitted of treachery. Righteousness is 
personified by the mind that can think the most, the 



164 WHO ARE WICKED? 

heart that can feel the most, the sympathy that can 
embrace the most; by the soul that can endure the 
most, whether of misfortune, vilification, or scorn, and 
yet love all mankind with a strong and inalienable 
devotion. 

Wickedness seems less a product of society than of 
an individual wanton will and demoralized heart; and 
the general custom of denouncing those who minister 
to or abet such wantonness and demoralization has a 
tendency to divert attention from the primal cause of 
ruin. When a man acknowledges himself weak in 
self-government, we may be sure the process of degen- 
eration has long been going on. One compliance with 
the demands of unlawful gain or pleasure makes the 
way easy for another; and through familiarity and 
repetition, the act once deemed impossible is deliber- 
ately or recklessly committed. 

Probably the most hardened criminal can recall the 
hour when a slight exertion of the will would have 
restrained the appetite or the passion which eventually 
destroyed him. 

The fact that man may — morally — stumble and fall 
as well as run or leap, admits of neither wonder nor 
contempt, but must be weighed with serious interest, 
and regarded as a proof of the humanity which con- 
nects the lowliest with the most exalted. 

Character cannot become either ennobled or vitiated 
by a sudden stroke : for both conditions adequate causes 
exist, and for each is predestined peace or misery. 

The soul, like the body, is quick to recuperate after 
injury, and wondrously tenacious of life; but its stam- 
ina once exhausted, ho device of religion, no personal 
wish or effort, can prevent collapse. 



WHO ARE WICKED? 1 65 

All the faculties of the mind, as well as all human 
experience, clearly demonstrate that the states of being 
called weal and woe are less dispensations from Heaven 
than unavoidable effects from natural causes. 

Glancing, for instance, at that phase of morality 
expressed by the word retribution: nothing is more 
certain, not even death, and like that, the shape it 
assumes is always different from the one expected. 
People indulge in their pet foibles, with occasional com- 
punctions, it may be, but with a feeling of certainty 
that they know the consequences and are prepared 
for them. But lo, when retribution comes it inflicts 
a punishment never conceived of and which touches 
the tenderest sensibilities. The most cherished plans 
are subverted, the most vigorous affections paralyzed, 
the sweetest pleasures cut off, — and there is no appeal. 
Folly was indulged in, supreme laws were violated, 
high prerogatives were sacrificed, a temporary peace 
was obtained at the price of a pitiful compromise: and 
when for such conduct the just penalty is inflicted, 
neither supplication nor promise will ameliorate the 
suffering. Retribution is a fixed law, which neither 
force nor weakness can change, and which cripples, 
chastises, and humiliates precisely in proportion to 
transgression. 

" See with what tremendous severity even frailties 
are scourged," says O. B. Frothingham. " Faults which 
are not mischievous enough to be crimes, nor wilful 
enough to be sins, bring on their possessor immediate 
and grave penalties : batteries of cannon discharged 
against mosquitoes — swords of cherubim drawn against 
gnats! It seems sometimes as if Nature acted on the 
old theory that every sin, being a sin against an in- 

*5 



1 66 WHO ARE WICKED? 

finite Being, was infinite and merited an infinite doom. 
He is a brave man who in the face of obvious con- 
sequences dares to cherish even a foible. Indolence 
is an enticing and pardonable weakness, but it entails 
failure and backwardness ; it dooms its devotee to a 
place in the rear of improvement, and consigns him to 
the limbo of the hangers-on ; it impairs at once the 
impulse, the desire, and the power to excel ; defeats 
ambition, squanders faculty, destroys self-respect, and 
subjects one to weariness and monotony of existence 
— perhaps to ridicule. 

" Procrastination is deemed a venial fault; but it is 
reckoned with as a heinous crime; for in the accumu- 
lation of trouble it brings, in the mortifying sense of 
imbecility, in the perpetual missing of opportunity, in 
gradual heedlessness of duty, in the blame, the dislike, 
the anger, of those whom it subjects to inconvenience, 
and possibly to distress, and, ultimately, in the deep 
and hopeless regret which overwhelms the mind, in 
view of arrears of obligation that can never be brought 
up, a penalty is imposed, sufficient, one would think, 
to make every man a minute man." 

However eloquently ignorance or passion may be 
urged in extenuation of sin, however keen and sincere 
the contrition that follows, retribution never swerves 
from its appointed task. 

But how, cries Humanity, can I do battle with the 
host of unruly thoughts and impulses which are ever 
contending for the mastery of my being ? 

To which Nature replies: That part of man called 
spirit is so active that it must of necessity find employ- 
ment, and if good be not put in its way will spend its 
energy upon evil. 



WHO ARE WICKED? 1 67 

People have been known to confess themselves so 
weary of the sameness of life that they were ready to 
welcome even wrong-doing as a relief. Morbid as this 
state is, the liability to fall into it exists in a multitude 
of human beings, the causes of such abnormal craving 
lying in faculties perverted by ignorance or injudicious 
training. 

The minutest speck of evil allowed to remain upon 
the soul after the light of knowledge has been turned 
upon it, may so increase as to blight an entire life and 
bring down upon it execration instead of blessing. 
Observation teaches likewise that the noblest type of 
soul created is capable of moral resistance up to a 
given point only; that crossed, he is no more to be 
trusted than one of inferior mould. But what most men 
would call wickedness, the character-student would 
call humanity; and inasmuch as folly and weakness, 
no less than wisdom and strength, are attributes of 
the human condition, all men whether great or small 
must share both its perils and bounties. Youth, it is 
true, cannot conceive of nobleness and meanness in 
the same person: if he notice a man evincing a taste 
for something low and coarse, he rashly pronounces 
him altogether of that calibre; if another manifest re- 
finement in one act or pursuit, he straightway imagines 
he must be so under every circumstance. 

Human history assures us, however, that man is 
equally susceptible to good and bad influences, hence 
— in a moral sense — never safe. Here and there, 
undoubtedly, one may be found who, even amid the 
worst surroundings, remains staunch; but such a case 
must always be regarded as too rare to serve as a 
precedent or a principle. 



1 68 WHO ARE WICKED? 

Assuming, then, that none are infallible, the confi- 
dence we are in the habit of placing in others, or in 
ourselves, because of worthy antecedents or present 
honorable conduct, is liable at any time to be rudely 
shaken. Not an agreeable reflection to those who 
deem themselves far removed from the habits, sins, 
and vices of the people around them : but the only 
point of consequence is, how much truth does it con- 
tain ? Does not the study of human nature teach 
that badness is simply perverted goodness, the turn- 
ing into wrong channels the stream of activity which 
elsewhere would produce growth and beauty? In 
general, " naughty" or mischievous children are far 
more interesting than good, sedate ones, and become 
favorites with their elders no less than with their play- 
mates. It is not the naughtiness which attracts, but 
the force of character, the cleverness, the vitality, 
which if unperverted or fitly guided would expend 
itself with the same intensity in an opposite direction. 
The very qualities which, well regulated, produce a 
noble development of character, when perverted or 
misdirected yield misery and degradation. There 
seems no reason why children, no less than men and 
women, should not be taught that true religion means 
living from hour to hour doing the right thing and 
avoiding that known to be wrong ; that it matters not 
what our belief, education, social position, tastes, 
pleasures, aims, or aspirations are — at least none of 
these will help us — if we are not hourly living con- 
scientious lives. Each of these hours we often treat 
so lightly, brings with it positive advantages which it 
behooves us to employ for the highest possible good; 
opportunities which may affect our whole future, which 



WHO ARE WICKED f i6g 

we are bound to use if we would know inward peace 
and harmony. 

If I had known that, a man exclaims, how dif- 
ferently I should have acted! Weak, pitiful regret! 
Far better if he say to himself: You are not to know 
what is enveloped in the future, but simply to bring 
your noblest conception of duty into activity now. 
Whatever you do, think, or say, put the best of your- 
self into it, striving incessantly to realize that at any 
instant your present privileges may be cut off. 

No wonder that a feeling of dread comes over sensi- 
tive minds in their better moments, a shrinking as if on 
the verge of a precipice, as the thought of their actual 
life is contrasted with what might be ! Deep, clear, 
earnest thought alone can save men from sinking into 
a miserable material state of existence, one destructive 
alike to themselves and to their fellow-creatures ! All 
praise, all gratitude then to the thinkers of any age or 
country, who make us see what we are and what we 
may be, the wide gulf between the actual and the 
possible! Hour to hour! Let this be a motto, a 
principle, a guide, a means of rousing our dormant 
faculties and infusing a new vital experience into this 
apparently monotonous earthly routine. All this 
coming and going, working and playing, eating and 
drinking, thinking and talking, all this heterogeneous 
mass making what is called the " daily life" of men 
and women, what avails it unless a definite object be 
recognized beneath the routine? And what avails even 
this object, if its inspiring thought be not one which 
will sustain the soul even when all earthly ambitions 
have failed? 

To attempt to study the different religions of the 
15* ' • 



i; WHO ARE WICKED? 

world for purposes of personal enlightenment relative 
to our choice of one which might answer the needs of 
the soul, would be a project resulting in an irretriev- 
able waste of time and irremediable mental confusion. 
If life mean any thing real and earnest for us we shall 
thankfully take the religion — as ordinarily understood 
— of our age and country, just as we take its govern- 
ment, customs, and enlightenment. Not that we are 
passively to accept good or bad doctrines, but to apply 
reason to the consideration of whatever we are taught, 
and labor unceasingly to deduce from it such truth as 
will harmonize with the absolute law of conscience as 
found within each individual soul. 

"Nous avons un devoir," says Victor Hugo: "tra- 
vail.ler a Fame humaine, defendre le mystere contre le 
miracle, adorer l'incomprehensible et rejeter l'absurde, 
n'admettre, en fait d'inexplicable, que le necessaire, 
assainir la croyance, oter les superstitions de dessus 
la religion." 

Alluding to the knowledge of human nature Jesus 
invariably manifested, Dr. Furness says : " Thus, his 
heart beating full and strong with the tenderest human 
sensibilities, this wonderful young man pursued his 
lofty way alone with God, with no present aid or past 
precedent, through the deep mystery of being. Was 
there ever any thing sublimer than his self-possession? 
He neither sought to evade the inevitable, nor was he 
driven to precipitate it. Did one ever before or since 
bear himself on the brink of so black an abyss with so 
serene a mind ? There is not observable in him the 
slightest exaggeration or incoherency. Mankind ad- 
vances only to find every new age illustrating the 
truth of his words, and rendering his greatness the 



WHO ARE WICKED? 17 1 

more wonderful. He was the model for all the world, 
and for all time, of wisdom simple and profound, and 
of an unprecedented consideration for others. He was 
always present, and more than equal to every occasion 
that arose. He said what the moment offered him 
the opportunity of saying, and that so admirably that 
nothing was left unsaid, and yet so simply and natu- 
rally, that what he said seems now a matter of course. 
Nothing could occur to him, however suddenly and 
adversely, that he did not so turn it to his service, that 
Nature and Providence appear to have been in collu- 
sion with him, plotting to aggrandize him. He over- 
looked nothing. He turned every thing to his account, 
the wild flowers and the birds of the air, every thing 
down to the small grain of mustard-seed, and to 
homely domestic employments, the making of bread, 
he made serve his great purposes. In such familiar 
communion, by the way, as he was with inanimate 
nature, can it be supposed that he was insensible to 
human sympathy? . . . 

"But, after all, the manner of doing a thing always 
has a very large, if not the largest, share in deter- 
mining its effect. The greatest act may be spoiled 
by the way in which it is done, a*nd the homeliest 
office of kindness may be discharged with a grace 
that shall hint of Heaven. It is not in the form or in 
the word, but in the spirit that lies the power. And 
the great personal power of Jesus cannot, I conceive, 
be fully accounted for without bringing distinctly into 
view what it seldom occurs to us to think of, as it is 
scarcely once alluded to in the Gospels, and if it were 
alluded to, was not a thing that admitted of being 
readily described : his personal presence, in a word, 



\J2 WHO ARE WICKED? 

his manner. All that we read in the records in regard 
to it is, that his teaching was marked by a singular air 
of authority. No, this was not a thing to be described. 
It was felt too deeply. It penetrated to that depth in 
the hearts of men whence no words come, whither no 
words reach. It was the strong humanity expressed 
in the whole air of him, and unobstructed by any 
thought of himself, that drew the crowd around him, 
or at least fixed them in the attitude of breathless 
attention. Many a heart, I doubt not, was made to 
thrill and glow by the intonations of his voice attuned 
to a divine sincerity, or by the passing expression of 
his countenance beaming with the truth, which is the 
presence and power of the Highest. In fine, it was his 
manner that rendered perfect the expression of his 
humanity, and gave men assurance of his thorough 
sincerity. And the peculiar charm of his humanity 
is, that it bloomed out in the fulness of beauty, not 
in the sunlight of joy, but under the deep gloom 
of an early, lonely, and cruel death ever present to 
him as the one special thing which he was bound to 
suffer. . . . 

"Notwithstanding the deadly hatred of men, he 
loved them with a love stronger than death, and put 
faith in them as no other ever has done. The outcast 
he treated with a brother's tenderness, identifying 
himself with the meanest of his fellow-men, and in 
the most emphatic manner teaching that sympathy 
withheld from the least is dishonor cast upon the 
greatest. 

" Strikingly as his entire possession of himself and 
his freedom from all extremes stand out in contrast 
with his perfect knowledge of his fate, yet upon re- 



WHO ARE WICKED? 



173 



flection it is evident that it was because of this fore- 
knowledge, because he had renounced all solicitude 
about himself, that he was so self-possessed, so con- 
siderate, and so wise. Being relieved by his self-re- 
nunciation from all selfish anxieties, his whole great 
and generous nature, having God and truth and 
humanity for its aims, rejoiced in its unfettered 
liberty." 



VI. 

GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 



Armado. What great men have been in love ? 
Moth. Hercules, master. 

Armado. Most sweet Hercules ! — More authority, dear boy, name 
more; and sweet my child, let them be men of good repute and car- 
riage. — Shakspeare. 

La Famille s'appuie sur 1' Amour, et la Societe sur la Famille. Done 
PAmour precede tout. — Michelet. 

Love never fails to master what he finds, 

But works a different way in different minds, 

The fool enlightens, and the wise he blinds. — Dryden. 



Who can put the intangible into form, seize the 
subtile mysteries of the soul, and give them name, 
date, and origin ? 

None : and yet the poet comes so much nearer than 
any other towards expressing the sentiments and pas- 
sions common to all, that we instinctively turn to him 
in hours of deep emotion and in epochs of unwonted 
experiences. We know that he penetrates where 
others cannot go, and that the God-given power within 
him divines the enigmas which to others seem wholly 
incomprehensible. But even when we have listened 
to all he has to tell us we are not satisfied, but rest- 
less under the ever-present consciousness that there 
i74 



GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 175 

is more, far more in the human soul than even he can 
reveal. 

Like the rosy hue on the Alps at sunset, love trans- 
figures the humblest object into a vision of beauty, 
and carries the mind into regions whence all the com- 
mon ills of life appear insignificant and endurable. 
Even when the actual image is removed from sight, 
and we stand amid the shadows of evening wondering 
whether that glimpse of heaven will ever return, a 
strange peace steals over the heart, and we again take 
up the thread of material existence with a spirit both 
enlightened and refreshed. What has been enjoyed 
in that communion with nature can be spoken to no 
human ear, but the remembrance lingers within long 
after ordinary avocations have been renewed, and im- 
parts to them a vitality before unknown. Strange, 
irresistible power, emanating we know not whence, 
working we know not how, but bringing such tender 
messages of hope and consolation that men are ready 
to sacrifice all other earthly things for its sake ! 

None so high, none so low as to escape this universal 
sovereignty : and even were it possible, who would 
wish to escape what brings such rare delight ! Lives 
there a man so callous, or a woman so disheartened, 
who does not gladly listen either to " some shallow 
story of deep love," or to a "deep story of a deeper 
love"? Ever new, ever diversified, ever attractive, it 
alternately kindles the imagination, touches the sensi- 
bilities, and arouses the sympathies of the listener. 
Knowing neither time, age, space, nor any of the 
obstacles which ordinarily deter men from their de- 
sired ends, love, like a gentle visitant from an invisible 
sphere, comes down into the abodes of men to soothe, 



176 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 

heal, and rejoice, tarrying longest with those who 
best appreciate its ministrations. True, having once 
touched the earth, it becomes subject to those con- 
ditions of change entailed upon humanity at creation ; 
but who would murmur at a dispensation which reason 
assures us is just ? Blessed, thrice-blessed decree that 
the supreme delights of earth should be so brief and 
evanescent ! Were all our days full of absorbing bliss, 
the minds needed for thinking and the hands for work- 
ing would be found wanting. Where then would be 
those great achievements in art, literature, science, and 
philanthropy, which now reflect so much honor upon 
human genius ? Chiefly from hours clouded with 
care and embittered with suffering come those mag- 
nificent proofs of art or moral courage which first 
hold generations spell-bound with admiration, and 
then spur them on to the development of their own 
treasures and capacities. 

While passing through the ordeal of hope, fear, 
and uncertainty, the extremes of rapture and de- 
spondency which pertain to this passion, surely no 
mortal would be strong enough to concentrate his 
energies upon prosaic labor. 

Inexplicable art thou, O Amor ! We cannot trust 
thee wholly, and yet are forced to acknowledge thee 
all-potent in moving hearts hither and thither at thy 
lawless will and roving fancy ! So arbitrarily are thy 
delights and torments dispensed, that those who at 
one period most eagerly seek thy grace, at another 
strive most earnestly to elude thy presence. How 
utterly incapacitated for the ordinary work of life are 
thy votaries ! How completely absorbed in the one 
object all the faculties of their being! Even under 



GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 



177 



the happiest auspices what doubt, apprehension, and 
jealousy dost thou not engender! Mischievous god! 
Well symbolized by an innocent little child whose 
blindness makes him the more harmless, he first 
attracts and then tyrannizes, so deftly, that even the 
proudest is finally compelled to submit to his yoke. 
Guileless enough is his sweet countenance, but his 
wiles and cunning are unfathomable. Delighting in 
surprise and strategy, in all manner of sly device, he 
is never more buoyant than when his victim is entan- 
gled beyond hope of escape ! This accomplished, he 
enters upon a series of pranks unequalled in ingenuity 
by any other experience, and baffling the prudence, 
intention, and will of the sufferer. 

Amenable to no rule, he pursues his warfare defiant 
of opinion or remonstrance, and only by unremitting 
vigilance, stringent discipline, and barriers of every 
conceivable contrivance are his assaults resisted. All 
this men know, and, nevertheless, to the impassioned, 
poetic soul love is the idea best worth living for, fight- 
ing for, dying for — that only which indemnifies for the 
ceaseless toil and harassment inalienable from exist- 
ence. With it — the possession full and undisputed of 
a heart beating in unison with his own — he can brave 
a host of misfortunes and still proclaim life an incal- 
culable privilege. With that heart, that other self wait- 
ing for him, the wearisome tasks that press so heavily 
upon the unloved, are cheerfully performed. Out- 
wardly like other workers, within he is sustained by 
the thought of the precious reward that is to be his 
when those tasks are over. What among all earth's 
blessings can compare with love such as noble men 
and gentle women interpret it? Ethereal and yet mun- 

16 



i;8 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES, 

dane ; soaring ever into regions of romance and yet 
longing for a pressure of the hand, a glance of the eye, 
a sealing of the lip; suffering acutely from separation 
and enabled to bear its suspense only through hopeful 
anticipations of the future ; filled with joy when re- 
united and made conscious that one such hour com- 
pensates for all past anxiety — such are the fluctuations 
to which this passion is subject. And how marvellous 
the changes it brings forth ! The eye becomes illu- 
mined, the voice invested with unwonted eloquence, 
the manner radiates the elixir of content, the universe 
discloses new wonders, the air is fraught with balmy 
fragrance, ordinary sounds are full of rare music, the 
mind acquires a penetrative force before unknown — in 
brief, the entire being is metamorphosed. 

Like all other emotions, love is tinged with the char- 
acter of the individual under its influence. Whether 
stern, exacting, and self-asserting, ardent, impetuous, 
and changeable, or tender, generous, and self-sacri- 
ficing, every manifestation corresponds to a special 
trait of disposition. High mental culture united to 
sound morality produces conduct incomprehensible to 
inferior natures, but which meets with quick response 
from those similarly endowed : whereas a narrow un- 
derstanding and lax principles are wholly incapable 
of a love which will survive the vicissitudes incident 
to time and circumstances. 

Knowing how a man thinks and lives, we may know 
how he will love: seeing in what manner a woman 
passes her time, we can readily foresee the kind of man 
upon w 7 hom she will fix her affections. Notwithstand- 
ing the acknowledged arbitrary nature of this passion, 
we are conscious of a strong inner current of feeling 



GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 



179 



which under circumstances of free choice will decide 
as to the mental and moral grade of the object of our 
affections. A woman of deep sensibility and refine- 
ment is rarely seen bestowing her love upon a man 
of low tastes, one inferior to herself in the essentials 
of mind and heart: neither would a man of strong 
conscientiousness and earnest aims be likely to be- 
come enchained by a worldly, frivolous woman. Love 
in its loftiest phases can be known only by men and 
women of character, those who have learned the best 
meaning of life. 

Love is an " illusion," men say. Granted : but is it 
more so than pride, hope, hate, cruelty, or any one of 
the multiform feelings, passions, and sentiments inci- 
dent to human nature ? To what part indeed may the 
term "substance" be fitly applied? Those who have 
devoted the best years of youth and ability to the ac- 
quisition of an art or a science are sometimes heard 
expressing doubt as to the wisdom of their course; 
and in a still less degree does the pursuit of wealth 
or other material benefits awaken a sense of substance 
with regard to the object held. The cynic who con- 
temptuously designates love an "illusion," a danger- 
ous phantasy which leads men astray, is no nearer a 
solution of the problem and no more exempt from its 
influence than the youth who firmly believes that 
nothing can ever cool the ardor of a first passion. 

But the illusory attributes of our highest joys need 
not depress us. Is the delight caused by a gorgeous 
sunset marred by the knowledge that those brilliant- 
hued clouds will presently vanish and leave but the 
vivid remembrance of beauty? Or, the thrill produced 
by certain strains of music lessened by the conviction 



180 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 

that they can never be reproduced with precisely the 
same skill and under the same circumstances? Or, 
are we deterred from seeking the charms of friendship 
by the consciousness that accident or death may cause 
the anguish of separation? 

On the contrary: we are so constituted that we 
gaze, listen, seek, and enjoy, knowing well that this 
state must soon cease, but feeling nevertheless that 
we would not willingly change aught or barter our 
beautiful dreams for sober facts. 

Of what avail that the stony materialist should scoff 
at the boon that all humanity hopes for and prays 
for? — denounce a passion which, when disastrous to 
happiness, is so only in proportion to corrupt moral 
principle? Better, it would seem, to place implicit 
confidence in the leading of the heart, and believe that 
to some natures sentiment is as essential to life as 
facts are to others. Where activity of imagination vies 
with a desire for present human sympathy, inconsist- 
encies in conduct often occur which are regarded with 
scorn by all save the student of heart-history who 
knows that fierce hunger may drive men and women 
into those anomalous situations where, eventually, 
neither heart nor conscience finds repose; and that, 
however loudly the moralist may cry the note of warn- 
ing, it will be unheeded by all who have not learned 
endurance and self-control. 

Imagination is likewise accountable for much of 
the fickleness ascribed to love. People generally love 
in proportion to their own conception of the object 
rather than according to its actual worth: hence their 
enthusiasm cools when familiarity shows the inequal- 
ity of conception and reality, and they are led to 



GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 181 

search for new forms of beauty or goodness. A posi- 
tive change of sentiment often takes place before they 
acknowledge it even to themselves. A single mean 
action or cruel speech may annul the admiration of 
years, and the ideal once overthrown can never be 
reinstated. The very handling of so delicate a plant 
as affection must necessarily impair its bloom. 

Fickleness is by some considered involuntary, a 
condition which circumstances, not character, pro- 
duce : but when analyzed it seems to be a natural 
sequence of lack of judgment or firmness. A hasty 
friendship, for instance, is formed with one who is in- 
ferior in general character. Presently the true state of 
affairs is perceived, and he who withdraws misplaced 
affection or confidence is pronounced " fickle." Neither 
can a soul that is not true to itself be constant even 
where its dearest interests are concerned. In vain 
does a man argue that his actions affect himself only, 
and that moral lawlessness need not diminish his 
love for family or friends. He may indeed love with 
fervor, intend to give loyalty, devotion, tenderness, all 
that a heart powerfully drawn towards another can 
suggest, — may be ready to bow down before a dear 
idol and lose himself in the intensity of emotion, and 
yet, if false to the principle of self-control, will fail 
most ignominiously in preserving this love intact. If 
it seem appalling to realize that constancy in love is 
so rare a possibility, it is tranquillizing to cling to 
the certainty that a regulating of the general conduct 
conformably to morality is in every man's power. 

If naught occur to lessen respect, an old love never 
dies. Separation or imperative duties may keep it 
out of sight, or persistent exercise of conscience and 

16* 



1 82 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 

will may suppress any manifestation, but the sentiment 
itself is ineradicable. Neither does the reminiscence 
of a former attachment necessarily prevent the spring- 
ing up of a new one. Save in rare cases where through 
some peculiar calamity the heart receives a shock 
which irreparably blights its faculties, nature impera- 
tively demands a filling up of the places made vacant 
by inconstancy, separation, or death. 

Those who are most generous in giving forth ten- 
derness are the most earnest in seeking it. 

Narrow indeed must be the heart which can harbor 
only one strong affection in a lifetime! While all na- 
tures are susceptible to the master-passion, only the 
most highly organized are competent to ascend its 
heights and sound its depths. Among these we 
rarely behold the catastrophe of two people originally 
congenial and united by sacred bonds voluntarily 
separating. Changes occur, various incidents test 
principles, many hours of care and possibly of mis- 
apprehension are endured: but where each heart rests 
upon its own truest impulses and strives to make 
every thing outward bend to its loftiest ideal, love 
can never decline. Each partner, knowing his own 
liability to error of judgment or temper, the danger 
of even generosity itself waxing ungenerous under 
aggravation, looks with leniency upon the short- 
comings of the other, and when tempted to criticise, 
lingers upon virtues rather than upon faults. Love 
regarded not solely as a passion, but as a sentiment 
destined to warm and gladden human lives, at once 
loses its wayward characteristics and becomes subject 
to control. 

To every woman and to every man it comes in a 



GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 183 

different form, but to the high-toned there can hardly 
be a doubt as to the kind which may be accepted and 
merged into actual life. According to such decision 
is the dominion of the potential god beneficent or de- 
stroying. In much that pertains to his worship woman 
may be considered its Heaven-appointed priestess, and 
with her chiefly rests the charge of keeping the altar 
pure and beautiful. " Man himself," says Friedrich 
Spielhagen, " must ever remain to man not only the 
most interesting but indeed the only comprehensible 
object of all visible creation. For one human soul 
that could fully sympathize with our own, joyfully 
would we throw to the winds all the worthless trifles 
with which, while the other supreme good was want- 
ing, we sought to lessen the monotony of life. And 
if this be true of man, it is doubly, triply true of 
woman. For her earth contains but one ecstasy, — to 
love : but one happiness, — to be loved." " Women 
more than all are the element and kingdom of illusion," 
says Emerson. " Being fascinated, they fascinate. 
They see through Claude Lorraines." 

Exquisitely susceptible as her nature is to this pas- 
sion, it possesses likewise an intuitive power which 
with a rapidity swifter than lightning reveals the faint- 
est indications of danger, warns and arms in the same 
instant. Endowed with sensibilities finer and passions 
weaker than those of man, she is accountable to a far 
greater extent than he for infractions of conscience 
and law. Even when of a deeply-impassioned tem- 
perament, ready to endorse what Rousseau says of his 
own inflammable heart: "Penetrated with a strong 
desire to love, but ever denied permission to satisfy 
that desire, I saw myself at the gates of old age and 



1 84 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 

death before I had begun to live. It seemed to me 
that Destiny owed me something she never paid, — 
else why was I created with faculties so capable of 
yielding joy only to be left to the end without op- 
portunities of employing them ?" — even then, woman, 
although saddened and perchance weary of life, may, 
through soundness of conscience, be enabled to live 
her life with honorable zeal and faithfulness. Coquetry 
— which Brillat-Savarin would have us believe " est 
nee en France, qui n'a de nom qu'en Frangais, et dont 
l'elite des nations vient chaque jour prendre des lecons 
dans la capitale de l'univers" — is not, according to 
other people, a special attribute of one nation, but of 
woman everywhere. Allied to, and yet far less exact- 
ing and tormenting than love, it seems to be a natural 
desire for admiration and sympathy, ingeniously trans- 
fused from heart into manner. While ardently craving 
and dearly appreciating the object it seeks, it never- 
theless holds courtesy and gallantry from the other 
sex as absolutely valueless unless a due admixture of 
warm personal feeling vivify those offerings. Neither 
does it in its natural state use its weapons upon every 
candidate presented, but only when the reputation of 
the enemy or its own caprice prompts an encounter. 

Occasionally, it may be, pride or ennui induces a 
woman to accept homage which otherwise would be 
unhesitatingly refused; but in that case coquetry is 
like a child playing a game not really liked and con- 
sequently evincing none of its wonted grace and vi- 
vacity. When feeling or fancy is the mainspring of 
action, coquetry strives earnestly to inspire interest 
in the object selected, and delights in turning over 
his mental and moral manuscripts while displaying 



GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 185 

whatever of grace, wit, and beauty she herself pos- 
sesses. 

When vanity or pride forms the stimulus of this pur- 
suit, innocent trifling may degenerate into a passion 
similar in intensity to gaming, and lead to conse- 
quences equally disastrous : but with truth and honor 
as principles, coquetry refuses to take undue advantage 
of her opponent, and never stoops to treachery. In 
woman's defence it may be said that coquetry often 
proves a safety-valve for a passionate susceptibility 
which otherwise would sear and consume her being. 

To the term coquetry various shades of meaning 
may be attached, the literal one "deceit or trifling in 
love" causing just abhorrence, while the figurative one 
generally adopted in society implies simply an agree- 
able interchange of wit, sentiment, and badinage be- 
tween men and women of similar calibre. When each 
understands the game, and regards it merely as a pleas- 
ing relief to the general dulness of a miscellaneous 
company, no harm can result from it save through the 
invidious or malicious remarks of observers. 

In society — where natural feelings are liable to be 
stigmatized as " heresies" — dogmatic judgment is fre- 
quently given upon those entanglements of passion 
which deviate from ordinary cases. Who can fairly 
say which is the dividing line between "love" and 
" infatuation" ? And yet each individual presumes to 
decide the momentous question — for his neighbor — 
according to his own prejudices, while wholly igno- 
rant, probably, of the complications which special con- 
ditions have produced. Usually the term " infatuation" 
is one of reproach, implying a yielding to feelings less 
justifiable than those of an orthodox attachment, and 



1 86 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 

is employed when disparity of years, inferiority of rank, 
or other apparent cause, calls forth the criticism or 
interference of beholders. For, even for the delicate 
mysteries of the heart it has been found convenient 
to have a fixed opinion, by which people are generally 
willing to abide so long as it saves them the trouble 
of reflecting and does not clash too violently with 
their own desires. If then any imprudent man ven- 
ture to give the affections play without consulting 
that opinion, the world cries out testily, " Infatuation ! 
Complete infatuation !" But until all the intricacies of 
psychological science have been explored, countless 
simple facts will remain inexplicable, and to the un- 
philosophical mind unpardonably " strange." 

In one case of so-called infatuation, a man may ex- 
claim with Dryden : 

" My heart's so full of joy, 
That I shall do some wild extravagance 
Of love in public ; and the foolish world, 
Which knows not tenderness, will think me mad." 

In another, a woman may sacrifice all the advantages 
of her station at the imperious command of a passion 
for which she herself probably could give no clearer 
explanation than the people who coldly censure her 
conduct. What is " infatuation," " madness," " folly," 
in the eyes of the multitude, may for the individual 
be the sanest act and yield the supremest happiness 
of life. 

Do people choose those with whom possibly they 
are compelled to pass the greater part of life ? And 
if they have not thus chosen, are they to be censured 
for not finding in those companions the satisfaction 



GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 187 

mind and heart seek? To be compassionated indeed 
is he who is forbidden to look beyond the contracted 
sphere of kinship for the soul-entrancing experiences 
to be found in a congenial nature ! People related by 
blood or marriage may live under the same roof a life- 
time, work for, sympathize with, and so far as nature 
permits, entertain a warm attachment for one another, 
and yet, as regards companionship, stand at an im- 
measurable distance. 

Restless, aspiring, progressive as man is, he cannot 
find the completeness he seeks in any one condition 
of life, and even in the most perfect marriage — one 
where intellect and heart seem to have met their 
counterparts — there come hours when other friend- 
ships are needed to break the monotony of daily 
routine and refresh the domestic atmosphere with 
new thoughts and kindly offices. Upon marriage in 
the abstract — a subject on which volumes innumer- 
able have been and to the end of time will continue 
to be written, but whose brightest and darkest episodes 
will never be portrayed — there need be no discussion. 
Every nation, rude or civilized, takes the institution 
into its own hands, dealing with its complex difficul- 
ties in accordance with the best enlightenment of the 
age. 

Among individuals of average education, one regards 
it as a possible event, an important phase between the 
beginning and the end — nothing more: while another 
claims for .it an exaggerated responsibility, that upon 
which all else depends and by which the happiness of 
an entire life may be made or marred. 

To those, however, who take more extended views 
of life, marriage, even under the most favorable con- 



^8 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 

ditions, is by no means the safe harbor imagination 
pictures it. "We are not very much to blame for our 
bad marriages," says Emerson. " We live amid hal- 
lucinations; and this especial trap is laid to trip up 
our feet with, and all are tripped up first or last." 

The marriage ceremony, however solemn or im- 
posing, is not potent enough to change the character 
of either participant. Consequently, unless the moral 
nature have had a prior discipline which enables pas- 
sion to be kept in subjection to law — practice to 
theory — individual desires to the good of the family 
— ideality to reality — the intimate companionship re- 
sulting from marriage very naturally leads to indiffer- 
ence, contempt, or cruelty on the one side, and dejec- 
tion, hatred, or viciousness on the other. The brief 
space in which each partner sees perfection in the 
other is quickly lived through, and daily interests and 
occupations make heavy demands upon strength and 
patience. Even when character, not passion, has 
been the basis of selection, when all things, so far as 
prudence could see, were combined to make a union 
desirable, there are risks and perils which no degree 
of human caution can foresee. Sooner or later Reality 
must escape from the glamour of the arch-enchantress 
Ideality, and the latter in resenting her loss gives 
vent to disappointment through irritability, tyranny, 
or injustice. 

" I cannot," writes Horace Walpole, " much felici- 
tate any body that marries for love. It is bad enough 
to marry; but to marry when one loves, ten times 
worse. It is so charming at first, that the decay of 
inclination renders it infinitely more disagreeable 
afterwards." But, knowing as we do that the word 



GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 189 

" love" is capable of numerous interpretations, we 
cannot take such an affirmation as wholly explanatory 
of even a Walpole's convictions. Indifference, cold- 
ness, or unhappiness in the married state can, when 
facts are known, always be accounted for. Many 
men and women enter that state with sentiments of the 
utmost indifference towards each other; for, although 
at one period they may be truly " in love," yet a month 
later — possibly long before marriage — they may be 
not in the least so. In any such case, there would be 
a rupture of the engagement were it not for a false 
conception of honor, which forbids frankness, or for 
fear of appearing ridiculous in the eyes of the world. 
But in the love which finds its origin in a thorough 
assimilation of two congenial natures, indifference and 
coldness would not arise, unless a moral deterioration 
were to take place in one of the parties. 

One of the best guarantees of matrimonial comfort 
would be a mutual understanding as to the certainty 
of change in sentiment, change not necessarily imply- 
ing decrease of affection. 

When a man says he could have loved a woman, 
but could not have married her, what does it imply? 
Which would a woman accept as the greater com- 
pliment? Are not those qualities which in the un- 
married woman prove most attractive and lovable the 
most undesirable in the wife ? Very frequently this 
seems to be the case. Who that is acquainted with 
the intricate machinery of a modern household does 
not know that method, economy, punctuality, and 
practical ability are essential for its competent man- 
agement ? And yet in the young unmarried woman 
those very qualities detract from beauty and grace, and 

17 



190 



GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 



consequently are rarely sought for. Many instances 
might be cited where the same traits that before mar- 
riage added most to the interest and fascination of a 
woman, afterwards proved most unsuitable for the 
practical duties which that state necessitates. 

When a man loves a woman is it not for the finer 
part of herself, her graces of person, heart, and mind, 
an indescribable something which for the time being 
elevates her above all her kind ? What her position, 
means, or family may be does not concern him ; 
neither does he pause to think whether she be a good 
housekeeper, whether she have accomplishments, or 
whether she would in all respects be fitted to preside 
over and grace his establishment. He loves her for 
what she is, is happy in her society and miserable out 
of it. Whatever of poetry there is in his nature finds 
expression in his sentiment towards her, and whatever 
of poetry there may be in her, he discovers and re- 
veres. All the finer portions of both beings are called 
forth by mutual affection, and materialism sinks out 
of sight. But in seeking a " wife," how different are 
a man's aims ! Education, social position, financial 
advantages, all must come in for a share of consider- 
ation; and whatever may be said of the "love"-mar- 
riages of America, observation teaches that convenience 
— in various disguises, it is true, but still the same un- 
derneath — is quite as influential here as in aristocratic 
countries. As marriage exists to-day, then, but very 
few high-toned natures can find in it the happiness 
they seek, from the simple fact of its demanding such 
a delicate combination of the material and the spirit- 
ual as under popular systems of education and modes 
of life is rarely attainable. 



GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. igi 

Dumas speaks of Roger de Beauvoir as "a man 
the least fitted in the world to be a husband, wedding 
a woman the least fitted in the world to be a wife." 
How many people of this kind do we not meet! — peo- 
ple admirable in many respects, kind, generous, witty, 
brilliant, self-sacrificing, noble, devoted, and yet — per- 
haps for these very reasons — destined to be unhappy 
in married life. Those of mediocre abilities are, as a 
rule, the most fortunate in matrimony. Untroubled 
with new ideas, tormenting doubts, visions of the imagi- 
nation, or wild speculations, they live on from day to 
day in the usual routine, never dreaming of change as 
being either desirable or practicable. Although we 
are pained at the sight — not an unusual one — of a 
man who in his own home is irritable, exacting, and 
bitter, while elsewhere he is considerate, affectionate, 
and charitable, we need not cry out with righteous 
indignation at this " inconsistency" or " hypocrisy." 
Were the causes of such conduct open to unprejudiced 
investigation, probably our judgment would be greatly 
modified. A noble-hearted, generous, intelligent man 
can never know domestic peace if he be mated with a 
weak, worldly, ignorant woman. Nor can a gentle, 
refined, and cultivated woman know any happiness in 
marriage if her companion be coarse, selfish, and dom- 
ineering. The finest nature in the world may be ruined 
by daily contact and conflict, silent or expressed, with 
an uncongenial companion. 

Lord Jeffrey, writing to his brother from Edinburgh, 
says of " Mary" that " she is domesticating with her 
husband, child, and cat. Examples of this kind really 
give me a horror of matrimony ; at least they persuade 
me more and more of the necessity there is for com- 



IQ2 



GREA TER THAN SCEPTRES. 



pleting one's stores of information and sources of 
reflection and entertainment before entering into it. 
There is no possibility of improvement afterward ; that 
is, if one really is to live a matrimonial life." 

Although this bears the mark of youth, and we are 
not at all surprised to hear of the writer subsequently 
contracting two marriages, yet the suggestion relative 
to superfluity of domesticity for active minds is de- 
serving of attention. 

The few but illustrious examples of supreme hap- 
piness in married life seem to keep hope green and 
fresh in all human hearts. Does not each heart say 
to itself: There have been happy marriages, and ad- 
mitting that they are exceptions, why may not mine 
be one? Lady Morgan when in France — 1829-30 — 
speaks with great enthusiasm of the Count de Segur, 
a man eminent as writer, diplomatist, and philosopher. 
Upon showing the portrait of his wife, deceased the 
year previous, he remarked : " It is all that remains of 
fifty years of the most perfect friendship of which I 
know any example. Not only was there not a single 
disagreement between us upon general subjects of 
literature, politics, or private affairs, but," he added 
with emphasis, "pas le moindre nuage domestique, 
pas meme une difference d'opinion dans les details du 
menage. The loss of such a friend, such a companion, 
such a secretary, is not to be estimated — would not be 
endurable if there was much of life left to indulge in 
vain regrets. What comfort and support she was to me 
under my great calamities ! When you were in France 
she was my amanuensis, and wrote the whole of my 
' Universal History' under my dictation, for I was then 
almost blind." M. Jules Cloquet, the biographer of 



GREA TER THAN SCEPTRES. 



93 



La Fayette, and one of his most valued friends, tells 
us that La Fayette had sincerely admired Mme. de 
Segur's character, and often spoke of her and her hus- 
band in terms that evinced warm appreciation of their 
virtues. 

Of the love and devotion existing between the un- 
fortunate Lord William and Lady Rachel Russell 
numerous eulogies have been written. According to 
Burnet, we learn that : " On the Tuesday before Lord 
Russell's execution, after dinner, when his lady was 
gone, he expressed great joy in the magnanimity of 
spirit he saw in her, and said the parting with her was 
the greatest thing he had to do, for he said she would 
be hardly able to bear it ; the concern about preserving 
him filled her mind so now, that it in some measure 
supported her; but when that would be over, he feared 
the quickness of her spirits would work all within her. 
On Thursday, while my Lady was gone to try to gain 
a respite till Monday, he said he wished she would 
give over beating every bush, and running so about 
for his preservation ; but when he considered that it 
would be some mitigation of her sorrow, that we left 
nothing undone that could have given any probable 
hopes, he acquiesced : and, indeed, I never saw his 
heart so near failing him as when he spake of her; 
sometimes I saw a tear in his eye, and he would turn 
about, and presently change the discourse. On Fri- 
day, at ten o'clock at night, my Lady left him ; he 
kissed her four or five times, and she kept her sorrow 
so within herself that she gave him no disturbance by 
their parting. 

"The evening before his death he suffered his chil- 
dren, who were young, and some of his friends, to take 

17* • 



194 



GREA TER THAN SCEPTRES. 



leave of him ; in which he maintained his constancy 
of temper, though he was a very fond parent. He 
parted with his Lady at the same time with a com- 
posed silence; and she had such command of herself, 
that when she was gone he said the bitterness of death 
was past (for he loved and esteemed her beyond ex- 
pression). He ran out into a long discourse concern- 
ing her — how great a blessing she had been to him, 
and said — ' What a misery it would have been to him 
if she had not had that magnanimity of spirit, joined 
to her tenderness, as never to have desired him to do 
a base thing for the saving of his life.' He said — 
' There was a signal providence of God in giving him 
such a wife, where there was birth, fortune, great un- 
derstanding, great religion, and great kindness to him ; 
but her carriage in his extremity was beyond all. He 
was glad that she and his children were to lose nothing 
by his death ; and it was a great comfort to him that 
he left his children in such a mother's hands, and that 
she had promised him to take care of herself for their 
sakes ;' which I heard her do. As to Lady Russell, 
she bore the shock with the same magnitude which 
she had shown at his trial. When in open court, at- 
tending at her Lord's side, she took notes, and made 
observations on all that past, in his behalf; when pros- 
trate at the King's feet, and pleading with his Majesty 
in remembrance of her dead father's services to save 
her husband, she was an object of the most lively 
compassion ; but now, (when without a sigh or tear 
she took her last' farewell of him), of the highest 
admiration. 

" He was a most tenderly affectionate husband, and 
perfectly happy in the mutual love of his most excel- 



GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 195 

lent Lady. She was a most faithful guardian of his 
fame. Her Ladyship also, in the same affectionate 
regard to her Lord's memory, after the revolution, 
made use of her interest in favour of his chaplain, Mr. 
Samuel Johnson (who calls Lord Russell the greatest 
Englishman we had) ; and was very instrumental in 
procuring him the pension, and other bounties which 
he received from that government. As she had prom- 
ised her Lord to take care of her own life for the sake 
of his children, she was religiously mindful to perform 
that promise, and continued his widow to the end of 
her life, surviving him above forty years ; for she lived 
to 29th September, 1723, in her eighty-seventh year. 
In the paper delivered to the sheriffs just before his 
execution, occur these words in reference to his domes- 
tic life : ' Since my sentence I have had few thoughts 
but preparatory ones for death ; yet the importunity of 
my friends, and particularly the best and dearest wife 
in the world, prevailed with me to sign petitions, and 
make an address for my life, to which I was ever 
averse ; for (I thank God) though in all respects I have 
lived the happiest and contentedest man in the world, 
(for now very near fourteen years), yet I am so willing 
to leave all, that it was not without difficulty that I 
did any thing for the saving of my life that was beg- 
ging; but I was willing to let my friends see what 
power they had over me, and that I was not obstinate 
nor sullen, but would do any thing that an honest man 
could do for their satisfaction, which was the only 
motive that swayed or had any weight with me.' " 

Lady Russell, alluding to her husband, in a letter to 
Dr. Fitzwilliam, says : " You that knew us both, and 
how we lived, must allow I have just cause to bewail 



196 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 

my loss. I know it is common with others to lose a 
friend ; but to have lived with such a one, it may be 
questioned how few can glory in the like happiness, so 
consequently lament the like loss. . . . Yet secretly 
my heart mourns, too sadly I fear, and cannot be com- 
forted, because I have not the dear companion and 
sharer of all my joys and sorrows. . . . 'Twas an inesti- 
mable treasure I did lose, and with whom I had lived 
in the highest pitch of this world's felicity. . . . The 
stroke was of the fiercest, sure; but had I not then a 
reasonable ground to hope that what I loved as I did 
my own soul, was raised from a prison to a throne ? 
Was I not enabled to shut up my own sorrows, that I 
increased not his sufferings by seeing mine? How were 
my sinking spirits supported by the early compassions 
of excellent and wise Christians, without ceasing, ad- 
monishing me of my duty, instructing, reproving, 
comforting me ! You know, Doctor, that I was not 
destitute, and I must acknowledge that many others 
like yourself, with devout zeal, and great charity, con- 
tributed to the gathering together my scattered spirits, 
and then subjecting them by reason to such a submis- 
sion as I could obtain under so astonishing a calamity ; 
and further, he (God) has spared me hitherto the chil- 
dren of so excellent a friend, giving them hopefull 
understandings, and yet very tractable and sweet dispo- 
sitions ; spared my life in usefulness I trust to them ; 
and being I am to linger in a world I can no more 
delight in, has given me a freedom from bodily pain 
to a degree I almost never knew. ... I had made 
him my idol, though I did not know it; loved man 
too much and God too little ; yet my constant prayer 
was not to do so ; but not enough fervent I doubt. I 



GREA TER THAN SCEPTRES. 



197 



will turn the object of my love all I can upon his loved 
children, and if I may be directed and blessed in their 
education, what is it I have to ask in relation to this 
perishing world for myself?" 

With the extraordinary harmony and beauty in 
the domestic life of La Fayette every one is well 
acquainted. 

General Holstein, the same who under the fictitious 
name of Peter Feldmann assisted in the liberation of 
La Fayette from the prison of Olm utz, and knew the 
family intimately, says of Mme. de la Fayette: 

"How shall I delineate the character of that virtu- 
ous and admirable woman, how express the profound 
veneration with which my heart is filled, how depict 
those qualifications, that rare and heroic self-devotion, 
the model of all that is great, and noble, and exalted, 
which adorned and characterized the too short life of 
this extraordinary female, whose claim to all the praise 
we can bestow is enforced by the recollection of how 
well she deserved the name of Madame de la Fayette! 
We defy the ablest writer to do justice to the merits 
of this distinguished woman. He may convey some 
idea of her noble character, but can never make his 
portrait of her virtues faithful and complete." 

Separated from her husband, and confined with her 
two young daughters in the prisons of Paris, expect- 
ing every day those charges against her which meant 
a decree of death, and hearing constantly of friends 
and relatives who had fallen by the guillotine, Mme. 
de la Fayette nevertheless preserved her composure 
and dignity. In General Holstein's words: "She has 
often acknowledged to me since that, when the an- 
guish and agony of body and mind had almost de- 



198 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 

prived her of her senses, she had still resolution 
enough to suppress her tears, and repair to some 
corner of her miserable prison, and there offer up a 
prayer to Heaven, without being perceived by her 
children, who were fellow-prisoners in the same 
apartment." 

Of La Fayette himself M. Cloquet says: " He owed 
every thing to his good natural disposition, to the 
purity of his feelings, and to the development of his 
exalted intelligence ; he never acted a part, inasmuch 
as he always displayed himself in public as he ap- 
peared in the bosom of his family, his private life 
having been really the counterpart of his political 
career. . . . 

"La Fayette had a high regard for the domestic 
virtues which he considered the basis of society and 
the only certain and pure source of public prosperity. 
He always spoke with respect and tenderness of both 
his parents, whom he lost almost in his infancy. In 
his children, he cherished the memory of their 
mother, (Mademoiselle de Noailles) whom he had 
loved most tenderly, and whose name he never men- 
tioned but with visible emotion." 

In a letter of La Fayette's, written after his wife's 
death, to his friend Masclet, he says: "I willingly 
admit, that under great misfortunes I have felt myself 
superior to the situation in which my friends had the 
kindness to sympathize; but at present I have neither 
the power nor the wish to struggle against the 
calamity which has befallen me, or rather to surmount 
the deep affliction which I shall carry with me to 
the grave. It will be mingled with the sweetest 
recollections of the thirty-four years during which I 



GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 



199 



was bound by the tenderest ties that perhaps ever 
existed, and with the thought of her last moments in 
which she heaped upon me such proofs of her incom- 
parable affection. I cannot describe the happiness 
which, in the midst of so many vicissitudes and trou- 
bles, I have constantly derived from the tender, noble, 
and generous devotion with which she brightened my 
existence." 

Of Lagrange, the home of La Fayette's last years, 
M. Cloquet says: "At Lagrange, the visitor breathed 
a purer air, and tasted the charms of retirement with- 
out the weariness of solitude; all in that peaceful 
retreat inspired a happy calm, and a feeling of affec- 
tion for the human species, which there appeared under 
the most favorable colors. . . . There every one ap- 
peared as he really was, and saw only in the distance, 
and characterized in their real insignificance, the scenes 
of the great world ; the personages of which think 
themselves obliged to act a part, and consent to be 
deceived, in order that they in their turn may deceive 
others. . . . 

"The general scrupulously avoided incommoding 
the liberty of his guests, to whom every mode of 
amusement was afforded. You were allowed without 
constraint to indulge your taste for study, for drawing, 
or for conversation ; — you were at liberty to gather 
from La Fayette himself all the information that you 
might require for your instruction — for he was a living 
record of many a memorable epoch — a book whose 
pages were ever open to such as were worthy to consult 
them ; and he possessed in perfection the tact of dis- 
covering whether the questions addressed to him were 
dictated by genuine interest or frivolous curiosity." 



200 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 

Among authors and eminent scholars we find like- 
wise sufficient testimony to prove that intellectual 
tastes of a high order are not, as is commonly sup- 
posed, incompatible with happiness in domestic life. 
Indeed, such testimony proves that a man of reason 
and imagination, when mated to a woman of congenial 
tastes tempered by true feminine gentleness and ten- 
derness, is capable of both enjoying and giving forth 
a degree of happiness which minds of a lower grade 
cannot even comprehend. 

Of Shelley his wife tells us that " his own defini- 
tion of Love reveals the secrets of the most impas- 
sioned and yet the purest and softest heart that ever 
yearned for sympathy, and was ready to give its own, 
in lavish measure, in return." Again: "To me death 
appears to be the gate of life; but my hopes of a 
hereafter would be pale and drooping, did I not ex- 
pect to find that most perfect and beloved specimen 
of hurnanity on the other shore; and my belief is that 
spiritual improvement in this life prepares the way to 
a higher existence." 

Again with reference to this subject Mrs. Shelley 
says of her husband : " In a journal I find these feel- 
ings recorded with regard to a danger we incurred 
together at sea. ' I had time,' wrote Shelley, ' in that 
moment, to reflect and even to reason on death; it 
was rather a thing of discomfort and disappointment 
than terror to me. We should never be separated ; 
but in death we might not know and feel our union as 
now.' For myself," continues the devoted wife, " no 
religious doctrine, nor philosophical precept, can 
shake the faith that a mind so original, so delicately 
and beautifully moulded, as Shelley's, so endowed 



GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 2 OI 

with wondrous powers and eagle-eyed genius — so 
good, so pure, would never be shattered and dispersed 
by the Creator ; but that the qualities and conscious- 
ness that formed him, are not only indestructible in 
themselves, but in the form under which they were 
united here, and that to become worthy of him is to 
assure the bliss of a reunion." 

Alluding to letters addressed to herself during their 
brief separations in Italy, Mrs. Shelley calls them 
''precious relics of love, kindness, gentleness, and 
wisdom. I have but one fault to find with them, or 
with Shelley, in my union with him. His inexpress- 
ible tenderness of disposition made him delight in 
giving pleasure, and, urged by this feeling, he praised 
too much. ... I do not conceal that I am far from 
satisfied with the tone in which the criticisms on 
Shelley are written. Some among these writers 
praise the poetry with enthusiasm, and even discrimi- 
nation; but none understand the man. If it be alleged 
in praise of Goethe that he was an artist as well as a 
poet; that his principles of composition, his theories 
of wisdom and virtue, and the ends of existence, 
rested on a noble and secure basis; not less does that 
praise belong to Shelley. His Defence of Poetry is 
alone sufficient to prove that his views were, in every 
respect, congruous and complete ; his faith in good 
firm, his respect for his fellow-creatures unimpaired 
by the wrongs he suffered. Every word of his letters 
displays that modesty, that forbearance, and mingled 
meekness and resolution that, in my mind, form the 
perfection of man. ' Gentle, brave, and generous,' he 
describes the Poet, in Alastor; such he was himself, 
beyond any man I have ever known. To these admir- 

18 



202 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 

able qualities were added his genius; his keen insight 
into human motive — as his theory of morals, which, 
based on a knowledge of his kind, was perspicuous, 
subtle, comprehensive, and just; the pure and lofty 
enthusiasm with which he regarded the improvement 
of his own species. He had but one defect — which 
was his leaving his life incomplete by an early death. 

" O that the serener hopes of maturity, the happier 
contentment of mid-life, had descended on his dear 
head, to calm the turbulence of youthful impetuosity 
— that he had lived to see his country advance to- 
wards freedom, and to enrich the world with his own 
virtues and genius in their completion of experience 
and power! When I think that such things might 
have been, and of my own share in such good and 
happiness ; the pang occasioned by his loss can never 
pass away — and I gain resignation by believing that 
he was spared much suffering, and that he has passed 
into a sphere of being better adapted to his inex- 
pressible tenderness, his generous sympathies, and his 
richly-gifted mind. That, free from the physical pain 
to which he was a martyr, and unshackled by the 
fleshly bars and imperfect senses which hedged him 
in on earth, he enjoys beauty, and good, and love 
there, where those to whom he was united on earth 
by various ties of affection, sympathy, and admiration, 
may hope to join him." 

Of Douglas Jerrold, the ardent friend of humanity 
no less than the wit and man of letters, we are told 
that "he was a most tender husband and father;" and 
of his wife that she "sweetened his life from his open- 
ing manhood to his death," that " her life indeed 
closed with his." 



GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 



203 



With Dr. Johnson's singular marriage every one is 
familiar. Notwithstanding his remark to Boswell that 
"it is commonly a weak man who marries for love," 
he seems to have been inspired with more than an 
ordinary passion for Mrs. Porter, the lady of his 
choice; and although she was almost double his age, 
is said to have proved a most affectionate and indul- 
gent husband to the last moments of her life. " Her 
death," Boswell says, " affected him with the deepest 
distress. Why Sir John Hawkins should unwar- 
rantably take upon him even to suppose that Johnson's 
fondness for her was dissembled (meaning simulated or 
assumed), and to assert, that if it was not the case, 
1 it was a lesson he had learned by rote,' I cannot 
conceive, unless it proceeded from a want of similar 
feelings in his own breast. To argue from her being 
much older than Johnson, or any other circumstances, 
that he could not really love her, is absurd, for love is 
not a subject of reasoning, but of feeling, and there- 
fore there are no common principles upon which one 
can persuade another concerning it. Every man feels 
for himself, and knows how he is affected by particu- 
lar qualities in the person he admires, the impressions 
of which are too minute and delicate to be substanti- 
ated in language. . . . That his love for his wife was 
of the most ardent kind, and, during the long period 
of fifty years, was unimpaired by the lapse of time, 
is evident from various passages in the series of his 
" Prayers and Meditations," as well as from other me- 
morials. 

Many other instances might be enumerated in 
proof of the entire compatibility of a high degree of 
mental culture with home-life of the purest kind. 



204 



GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 



And although it must be acknowledged that such 
instances are the exception, not the rule, in social life, 
they serve to show that the fact might be reversed if 
harmony of character ever came to be the main point 
discussed in marriage-contracts. Does not a sensitive 
person often feel vexed at his own quickness in dis- 
cerning indifference, contempt, or hatred in a married 
pair? To see them exchange cold looks, hear their 
jarring words, know that they have no thoughts, feel- 
ings, and interests in common, and yet that they are 
straining every nerve to preserve an appearance of 
affection before the world, — all this is calculated to 
lower our opinion of human nature, while awaking 
deep sympathy for the victims of error. In vain shall 
moralists preach resignation and cheerfulness under 
domestic tribulation when the cause of it is found in 
dissimilarity of character! The craving for sympathy 
that exists within every human soul is not intended 
to be in vain — a means of discipline merely — but a 
source of pure happiness, and becomes so whenever 
the mind is strong enough and the heart warm enough 
to act naturally. 

Now and then occurs an instance in which records 
of domestic felicity seem to be founded upon comrade- 
ship rather than upon actual congeniality of natures. 
Of M. and Mme. Roland, those names immortalized 
by heroic conduct in the French Revolution, ample 
proofs exist that their love of liberty and high-souled 
enthusiasm in its behalf proved a bond of union at 
once noble and enduring. This, however, is some- 
thing quite different from that unity of tastes and 
feelings which alone can produce true wedded happi- 
ness. When told, then, that spite of the disparity in 



GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 205 

years, M. Roland being twenty-two years the senior, 
his wife's " love for him, founded on his philosophic 
spirit and antique virtues, was so ardent and so faith- 
ful that she has often been called ' the Heloise of the 
eighteenth century;'" that "their principles, their 
souls, their hopes, their toils and sufferings, were 
alike and inseparable;" that " she entered with sym- 
pathy into all that engaged and interested him," we 
cannot but recall Mme. Roland's own words in those 
celebrated Memoires, written during her five months' 
imprisonment preceding her execution, and "which 
all the world still reads." 

Of their first interview, in which M. Roland pre- 
sents himself as bearer of a letter from their mutual 
friend, Sophie Cannet, Mme. Roland says : " I saw 
before me a man over forty, tall in stature, careless 
in attitude, with that kind of stiffness arising from 
studious habits ; his manner was easy and unpretend- 
ing, and, without evincing familiarity with society, 
combined the politeness of a well-bred man with the 
gravity of a philosopher." 

Although his features were "plus respectables que 
seduisans," yet when he conversed or was moved by 
an agreeable thought, a smile full of meaning and 
an animated expression gave his countenance quite a 
different aspect. Mme. Roland, although so young, 
seems to have had unusually grave thoughts upon 
marriage, for, while deliberating as to acceptance or 
rejection of her austere and somewhat cold lover, she 
says: "I reasoned that if marriage was as I thought 
it a serious bond, an association in which woman, 
ordinarily, takes the responsibility of two individuals, 
was it not better to exert my faculties and my courage 

18* 



206 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 

in this honorable task than in the isolated position I 
then occupied ?" 

Not the sentiments of a young and ardent woman 
anticipating a union with the man her heart had 
chosen ! 

Can any woman whose ruling passion is not love, 
be compared to the immortal Heloise of the twelfth 
century, to her who could write to Abelard after long 
years of separation and suffering: "God knows I 
never loved you for any thing except yourself! It 
was you, you only, regardless of your position, whom 
I loved. . . . For my heart was not my own but 
yours, and to-day more than ever, if it is not with 
you it is nowhere, since it cannot exist without you." 

" I became the wife of a truly worthy man," con- 
tinues Madame Roland, "whose love for me con- 
tinued to increase the longer he knew me. Married 
in all the seriousness of reason, I found nothing that 
changed my convictions, and devoted myself to him 
with all the enthusiasm of my nature. I always 
looked upon my husband as one of the most estimable 
men in the world, to whom I might well feel proud to 
belong. I often felt, however, that there was a want 
of parity between us, that the ascendant of a domi- 
neering character in addition to the twenty years' 
difference in age afforded him one superfluous advan- 
tage. When living in retirement I sometimes passed 
tedious hours; when we went into society I received 
the homage of men some of whom might have awak- 
ened in me too warm a sympathy. I plunged, there- 
fore, energetically into work with my husband, a step 
which brought its own inconvenience, for it habituated 
him to consider me as indispensable even for a mo- 



GREA TER THAN SCEPTRES. 2 0J 

ment. The first year of my marriage was passed 
entirely in Paris, where Roland had been called by 
the intendans du commerce, who desired to make new 
laws for manufactures, laws which Roland opposed 
bitterly, according to the principles of liberty which 
he applied to every thing. He published a description 
of some of the arts, for the Academy, and likewise 
his manuscripts upon Italy; in this work he appointed 
me his copyist and proof-corrector, and I fulfilled the 
task with a humility which cannot be recalled with- 
out smiling, and which seemed indeed irreconcilable 
with a mind trained like mine. But what I did came 
direct from my heart, and I respected my husband so 
entirely that I easily supposed he knew better than 
I did. 

" Besides this, I feared so much to see a cloud on 
his face and he was so tenacious of his opinions, that 
it was long before I acquired courage to contradict 
him. I pursued at that time a course of natural his- 
tory and a course of botany, the laborious and only 
recreation amid my occupations of secretary and 
housekeeper; for, living in furnished apartments, our 
home not being in Paris, and noticing that my hus- 
band's delicate health required special cooking, I 
took care to prepare the dishes that suited him my- 
self. We spent four years at Amiens, and I became 
mother and nurse without ceasing to share the work 
of my husband, who had taken upon himself a con- 
siderable part of the ' Nouvelle Encyclopedic' We 
left our studies only to take walks out of the town : 
I made an hcrbicr of the plants of Picardy, and the 
study of aquatic botany gave rise to ' L'Art du Tour- 
bier,' the latter being one of M. Roland's books. 



208 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 

" The frequent illnesses of my husband caused me 
great anxiety, but my attentions were not in vain, 
and this was an additional tie between us ; he cher- 
ished me for my devotion, and I became attached to 
him through the good I did him. ... In our early 
married life Roland did not wish me to hold much 
intercourse with my dear friends (Sophie and Henri- 
ette Cannet), to which I submitted. Only when time 
had inspired him with confidence enough to remove 
all inquietude as to my affection, did I venture to visit 
them oftener. It was an unwise plan : marriage is 
solemn and uniform, and if you deprive a sensitive 
woman of the pleasure of friendship with her own sex, 
you diminish a necessary nourishment and expose her 
to other risks. How many illustrations of this truth 
might be given !" 

In 1784 they moved into the district of Lyons and 
settled at Villefranche, in the paternal mansion of M. 
Roland, where his mother, "de l'age du siecle," and 
his oldest brother, a canon and counsellor, lived. 

" I could give numerous pictures of the manners of 
a little town and their influence ; of domestic trials ; 
of my complicated life with a woman exacting respect 
by her age, but terrible in temper ; and between two 
brothers, the youngest of whom was an enthusiast 
for independence, while the eldest was domineering 
by habit and prejudice." 

In a letter, dated 1785, from this uncongenial home, 
she writes : " I am now a housekeeper in good earnest ;" 
and after giving various and sufficiently onerous de- 
tails, she adds : " the order and peace in every thing 
which surrounds me, in the objects confided to me, 
among the persons I care for, the interests of my child 



GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 



209 



always to be looked at amid my various anxieties, such 
are my duties and pleasures. This kind of life would be 
very tedious if my husband were not a man of much 
merit, whom I greatly love ; but with this gift it is a 
delightful life, in which tender friendship and happy 
confidence mark every instant and give to every thing 
a high value. 

"It is the kind of life most favorable for the practice 
of virtue, and the support of all the inclinations and 
tastes which insure social and individual happiness in 
this state of society." 

These words, if compared with the previous account 
of the Roland menage, sound like the forced bright- 
ness of a spirited woman determined to make the best 
of her lot, and evince that same undaunted courage 
which, in history, has won for her the title, " bravest 
of all Frenchwomen." But in the same letter follow 
sentiments calculated to call forth surprise from those 
who have always regarded Mme. Roland as an apostle 
of honesty and liberty. " My brother-in-law," (the 
same described before as domineering by habit and 
prejudice), "whose character is extremely gentle and 
sensitive, is also very religious. I leave him the satis- 
faction of thinking that his dogmas appear to me as 
evident as they do to him, and outwardly I act as be- 
seems a mother of a family living in the country and 
expected to be an example to every body. As I was 
extremely devout in my youthful days I know the 
Scriptures, and even my divine service, as well as my 
philosophy, and I willingly make use of the first-named 
erudition, which edifies him highly. The truth, the 
inclinations of my heart, and a facility of bending to 
what is good for others without tarnishing or offend- 



2io GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 

ing uprightness, enables me to be whatever I ought 
to be, naturally and without the least labor. Keep in 
petto this effusion of confidence, and in replying touch 
upon it as vaguely as seems suitable." 

At a later day, when her patriotism and devotion 
had hurled her into a prison from which a cruel 
death was alone to release her, we are told by Riouffe 
that " something more than is usually found in the 
looks of women painted itself in those large black 
eyes full of expression and sweetness. She spoke 
to me often at the grate ; we were all attentive round 
her, in a sort of admiration and astonishment. She 
expressed herself with a purity, with a harmony 
and prosody that made her language like music of 
which the ear could never have enough. Her con- 
versation was serious, not cold ; coming from the 
mouth of a beautiful woman, it was frank and coura- 
geous as that of a great man. And yet her maid said : 
' Before you she collects her strength; but in her own 
room she will sit three hours, sometimes, leaning on 
the window and weeping.' " 

Of what use, it may be asked, to allude to instances 
of complete happiness in married life, or to those in 
which want of congeniality is perceptible? To the 
first may be answered, in the words of Sainte-Beuve, 
that " those who believe that a soul is an entire world, 
and that an eminent character can never be too closely 
studied," find not only great pleasure in dwelling 
upon beautiful exhibitions of human character as de- 
veloped in domestic life, but likewise great encourage- 
ment towards personal nobility of conduct and varied 
culture. We can never know too well those men and 
women whose lives have proved a lesson to all man- 



GREA TER THAN SCEPTRES. 2 1 1 

kind, and the more frequently their traits are held 
up to view the greater the chances of their inspiring 
imitation. What has happened once in human history- 
may happen again, and in regaling our minds with 
pictures of congeniality in marriage, we learn to 
believe that they are not merely the creations of a 
poet's brain, but truths founded on fact. 

To the second question we may say that very great 
benefit may be rendered to society by glancing at those 
dark scenes of wretched disharmony in wedded life, 
and learning from them that generally the causes lie 
in an utter absence of similar tastes and aims ; an 
absence which but for worldly considerations might 
have been perceived at the outset. 

But marriage, — under nature so simple an ordinance, 
under civilization one beset with so many difficulties, 
— however strongly desired, is not possible for all men 
or all women. Many live up to middle age, many 
others through a lifetime, either without meeting the 
one to whom, under society's stern censorship, they 
would wish to be united, or without being permitted 
by fate to possess the one chosen. Marriage then is 
not a state into which men or women may enter at 
will ; and the more extended the esthetic culture of 
individuals, the more numerous the doubts and com- 
plications which interfere with its attainment. Con- 
sequently, by that law of compensation which nature 
universally observes, those people so constituted that 
they cannot exist without attaching their affections to 
some particular object, are enabled to find in other 
directions the companionship they crave. 

That friendship of a high order is possible between 
men and women, has been demonstrated by many illus- 



212 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 

trious examples; but for such an intercourse of senti- 
ment and thought there must be strong healthy souls, 
capable, of inhaling and living in the pure bracing air 
of morality. This must be its corner-stone if it is 
not to sink into a weak sentimentalism or rise into 
a perilous passion. 

The austere social laws of England and America 
doubtless do much towards preserving intact the 
purity of home-life ; for it needs no argument save 
daily observation to prove that even educated and 
conscientious people cannot dispense with barriers 
of all kinds against the encroachments of temptation. 
Nevertheless, that very austerity may become a source 
of social rebellion if it be not judiciously tempered by 
grace, beauty, and w T it. 

These last prevent conversation from degenerating 
into a mere mechanism of words, manner from harden- 
ing into a formal interchange of civilities, and prepare 
the way for those gracious expressions and courteous 
acts which lead to ease, confidence, and friendship. 
Friendship ! what a wide range of thought is sug- 
gested by the mere mention of the word ! What 
visions of pure joy and deep sorrow, genuine help and 
absolute hindrance, painful doubt and calm spiritual 
repose, rise before us, as we recall the men and women 
who have known the meaning of that word ! 

Turning from the ordinary manifestations of the sen- 
timent as permitted between those of the same sex or 
between those related by blood, we pass to that phase 
somewhat vaguely called " Platonic Love." Whether 
this may or may not be acknowledged as a substitute 
for the love synonymous with marriage must, under 
existing modes of civilization, ever remain an open 



GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 213 

question. Among moralists and thinkers its advocates 
and opponents seem equally divided ; while among 
people generally there is an unequivocal dislike to a 
doctrine whose tenets seem so full of risk. That such 
risk exists, its most earnest advocate would not gain- 
say; but while acknowledging this, he would probably 
add that man's moral nature encounters similar risks 
everywhere, — in society, in solitude, in the church, in 
philanthropy, in love, and not least, in the home. 

Not, he might continue, that all men or all women 
are fitted for Platonic Love ; but with equal certainty 
it may be affirmed that neither are all fitted for any 
other position which judgment or feeling might urge 
them to seek or accept. But, however striking the 
unfitness of the majority for the posts they fill, there 
can be no waiting for perfection, and even with in- 
competency as the rule and suitability as the ex- 
ception, the work and the pleasure of the world must 
continue. 

" One does not refuse to exercise his mind for fear 
it will lead to insanity, but he takes care to exercise it 
healthily. The degree of danger in these (Platonic) 
connections will always depend on the characters of 
the parties. Friendship can be carried without adul- 
teration or peril to a degree proportioned to the 
nobleness and consecration of-fehe parties. There is a 
select class of men and women of the loftiest genius 
and character, the native haunt of whose souls is in 
the purest regions of nature and experience, who are 
made for friendship ; and who, destitute of this, are 
deprived of their truest and fullest happiness." So 
speaks Mr. W. R.Alger, in his charming book, "The 
Friendships of Women ;" and rarely indeed do we 

19 ' 



214 



GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 



find this difficult subject treated with such profound 
thought and such rare delicacy of sentiment. 

That it is a deep joy to be loved, to feel that mind 
answers to mind, heart to heart, and that neither 
time, distance, age, nor events can change the tender 
relationship, every man will confess. 

To woman not only does love bring that same 
deep joy, but in addition the firm conviction that life 
offers nothing else that can fill its place. She longs to 
feel that another's whole being is wrapped in hers, and 
that in every thought and act he rejoices in the bonds 
that hold him captive. She asks not whether he has 
loved before, whether it will continue, whether he 
could eventually love another; no jealousy of the past 
or of the future can impair present bliss. Why should 
she claim to be the first who has stirred a strong man's 
heart, or dream that she will be the last to impress it? 
Human nature teaches her other facts and principles 
which cannot be ignored even when under the influ- 
ence of passion. 

What is passion as applied to love ? 

Is it not that unseen force which makes us think, 
feel, and desire in defiance of reason, custom, position, 
and prospects ? The woman tempted by that force, 
may see the consequences as clearly as the neighbor 
who would not lose an instant's time in defaming her 
name if she got but the smallest shred of indiscretion 
upon which to hang her suspicions : the man driven 
by that same hurricane of sentiment into a position 
his very soul abhors, needs no moralist to tell him the 
penalties of his transgression. Both parties see the 
devastation produced, while powerless to hold in check 
the evil spirit they have evoked. Passion once in the 



GREA TER THAN S CEPTRES. 2 1 5 

ascendency, knows no bounds and boldly oversteps 
the highest walls of prudence, conscience, and law. 
History tells us many a thrilling tale of lawless pas- 
sion which has immortalized names that otherwise 
would have been buried in oblivion. Did those 
misguided men and women pay too high a price for 
their niche in the world's temple of fame? Did their 
suffering and remorse overshadow the recollection of 
stolen joys ? Or, were they enabled to bear the sting 
of shame and the brand of opprobrium by remember- 
ing that the lapse of years would palliate their offence 
by investing it with the many-colored mantle of 
romance? Nothing in human history strikes the 
student more forcibly than this curiously unequal 
distribution of the distinguishing badge called fame. 
Terrible crimes or infamous deeds are never forgotten, 
and for the mass of mankind the perpetrators possess 
an enduring and inexplicable fascination : while tens of 
thousands among the divinely patient and obscurely 
virtuous are — save through some fortuitous event — 
wholly ignored. 

Passion is not always sudden and unexpected in its 
assaults. The still, wordless joy which steals over 
our being, enhancing life tenfold and causing all out- 
ward nature to assume new and brilliant hues, must 
have had a beginning. When painfully happy are we 
not quick to trace this rare condition to its source and 
discover whether it is based on reality or whether it 
is only a trick of fancy? — -to inquire whether the 
ground we tread on is safe, or so treacherous that we 
may suddenly feel it slipping from beneath our feet ? 
In an undisciplined or irresolute character there may 
be protracted hesitation before taking a compromising 



2 1 6 GREA TER THAN SCEPTRES. 

step, but there can be no fear or no need of secrecy 
unless there be doubts as to the position. In the dark 
moments of moral temptation the difficulty is, usually, 
not that we cannot escape, but that we do not wish to. 

In woman, passion seldom gains the mastery if the 
calibre of her mind permits reason to have a voice. 
Remember, it urges, how much is at stake ! What 
tongues would whisper, what fingers point, what lips 
curl in derision, were the veil lifted which protects 
thy heart from the gaze of men ! Thou wouldst sink 
utterly under the disgrace heaped upon thee were the 
barrier of secrecy removed ! And yet how slight 
a thing might betray that which would bring ruin 
upon so many ! A look, a word, a hint, any one of 
the numberless accidents which the most jealous care 
cannot guard against, would suffice to level to the 
ground that fair temple of self-respect which hereto- 
fore has made thy life so peaceful ! Tear away all 
these films of sophistry and sentiment which blind 
thee to the real dangers in thy path, and judge thyself 
as thou wouldst judge another! 

Woman is so constituted that she cannot be happy 
in a false position, banished by her own act from the 
companionship of her equals, and consumed by regret 
or remorse. Well for her, then, if she regulate her life 
by those flashes of reason unalloyed by passion, which 
even amid temptation are occasionally vouchsafed ! 

Removed from the blinding effects of adulation and 
the delicious balm of sympathy which love pours at 
her feet, she realizes that poison may never be taken 
as food with impunity. However sweet, it must re- 
main untasted if she is to remain blameless in her own 
eyes, untarnished in those of others. 



GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 



217 



In vain will she smooth over with subtle argument 
the plain verdict of sincerity, and persuade herself that 
her case is an exception; that what would be impru- 
dent or reprehensible in another is for her allowable 
within certain bounds ; that her isolated position or 
her intense craving for love gives her the right to take 
what under other circumstances she would regard as 
forbidden. In vain will she ask: Can this which has 
such a beneficial effect upon my being, come from 
an evil source? Must I leave untouched this divine 
food, and wander forth in darkness and soul-hunger, 
tormented by that insatiable craving which withers 
my sensibilities and renders me incapable of tranquil- 
lity or aspiration ? The answer is ever the same : Yes ! 
The dearest, the purest, the best of all human joys 
must ruthlessly be given up whenever it cannot be 
had with the sanction of conscience and those social 
laws which all men agree to acknowledge. 

Under any conditions the game of sentiment is a 
dangerous one for woman to play; but when doubts 
arise in her own mind as to its issue, when she begins 
to suspect what makes hours of converse with one of 
the other sex so exquisitely sweet and painfully short, 
it is madness to continue. This possibly she may 
know, while she shrinks from dispelling the brilliant 
illusion which adds so great a zest to life. Moments 
come when her soul, in abrupt and searching tones, 
calls her to account. What means that inexpressible 
melancholy at the thought of separation, that intense 
longing for reunion, that desire to express in verse or 
prose somewhat of the inward tumult, that sense of 
peace and rest when with, and unrest and weariness 
when absent from, the loved one ? 

19* 



21 8 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 

The master-passion is always one and the same : its 
acceptance or refusal must depend upon that innate 
sense of right combined with custom and law, which 
our age and country compel us to recognize as best 
for all. One of the most painful results of an un- 
natural position in affairs of sentiment is the cloudi- 
ness it spreads over the moral perceptions. If they 
flow and ebb, rise and fall, leaving us at times tranquil, 
composed and happy, and at other times strongly agi- 
tated, we may safely surmise that mischief is brewing. 

Intimacy between a man and a woman may have 
risen so gradually to a strong affection that its true 
nature is not realized until submitted to the test of the 
presence of others. Have not many instances been 
known in which this test alone has revealed what 
sophistry before had cunningly concealed? In such 
an hour the chilliness of soul which seizes a true 
woman must be taken as a symptom of wrong, and in 
vain will be her endeavors to warm it with coverings 
of reason, self-justification, and expediency: what be- 
fore had been so easy to adjust and explain, is now 
awry, unsuitable, indefensible. 

Even when the danger feared is simply a clashing 
with conventionality, the risks and consequences of 
social ostracism are never to be lightly esteemed by 
woman. The old conflict between what is and what 
might or ought to be — through which so many be- 
wildered human souls have passed, and in which 
many others have succumbed — will never be ended. 

What is in itself blameless, may by the world be 
taken for something widely different, and so long as 
we ourselves belong to this " world," we are liable to 
judge our fellow-creatures precisely in the same man- 



GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 219 

ner. A woman may be earnest, true, aspiring, and 
conscientious, and yet, through an ardent desire for 
love, find herself walking upon a slippery path and in 
imminent peril. 

Victims of intemperance, of passion, of any of those 
dread violations of law or morality by which homes 
are made desolate and hearts broken, have been heard 
to declare, that at a certain stage of their downward 
course they would have welcomed any shock, calam- 
ity, or personal suffering which might check their 
fall. So to a woman may come an hour in which 
doubts and forebodings so thicken around her as to 
make her realize that a storm may burst over her 
at any moment. And if over her, over how many 
others? Human affairs become sometimes so strangely 
complicated that people may honestly wish to be true 
and honorable in conduct, and yet find it impossible 
to disentangle themselves from the net their own 
weakness has woven around them. Power of moral 
vision, of will, or of judgment, may become enervated 
and useless through yielding to misguided fancy or 
tyrannical habit. Upon strength of thought and senti- 
ment depends our strength of action when confronted 
with danger, that possibly upon which hang the des- 
tinies of all most dear to us on earth. 

In the hour of peril the rallying-cry of conscience 
for woman as well as man will always be, This boon 
of life, what art thou doing with it? Is not Life greater 
than Love ? 

The common belief that, in love, man is selfish and 
woman self-sacrificing, is not to be accepted without 
many modifications. Where moral worth is equal, 
men evince quite as much power of abnegation as 



220 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 

women, and even more capability of endurance, because 
their active duties in the world facilitate the creation 
of new thoughts and feelings. Supposing a case 
where love is based upon similarity of character, and 
where the attachment is so profound that no change 
can be contemplated without anguish ; yet if circum- 
stances make a separation needful, the man will con- 
duct himself as nobly and honorably as the woman. 
True love is so fearful of paining the object of its de- 
votion that no self-denial, no renunciation is deemed 
too great. Tremblingly and sorrowfully a man may 
assert that if he and his wishes stand between his 
loved one and her duty, in any way marring the har- 
mony existing between herself and those to whom 
other ties bind her, he is ready to give up what is 
dearer to him than life itself: and this even when he 
knows that his entire happiness is centred in that 
other self to whom fate had conducted him. 

All love-letters, confessions, observations, and expe- 
riences prove that in what concerns this passion, man 
and woman should be judged with equal leniency or 
severity, and always with due consideration for tem- 
perament, education, circumstance, and country. Could 
any thing be imagined more tender, fervent, and im- 
passioned than those famous "Lettres du Donjon de 
Vincennes" of Mirabeau? 

"That cowardly Ovid," he exclaims, "who has 
dared to make un art d'aimer, rendered homage to 
Augustus, his tyrant and persecutor: indeed, although 
all his writings are filled with the subject of love, they 
bear the imprint only of mind. Very few of his verses 
speak to the heart; for a man without courage is a 
cold lover." Whereas of Tibullus he says, " Ce deli- 



GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 2 2I 

cieux Tibulle qu'il faut lire, relire, savoir par cceur, et 
relire encore." Again writes Mirabeau, this "passion- 
ate pilgrim" who "had an ugly face on a handsome 
ground:" "Abandoned by fortune, persecuted by fate, 
separated from the one I adore, the mere thought that 
I have inspired a sincere passion is a source of consola- 
tion and delight. It is an enjoyment which neither 
riches, birth, intellect, gratified ambition, nor all other 
pleasures combined ever could give. Ce plaisir du 
cceur est vraiment unique, parce qu'il a sa cause dans 
lui-meme. He who has not been loved by the woman 
he loves does not know the meaning of happiness. 
Every other passion of the soul may have some inter- 
ested motive. I am served for what I give — flattered 
through artifice — a man calls me his friend because 
he hopes I shall be worth more to him than I cost 
him : but love is granted to myself, and can be neither 
feigned nor counterfeited." 

What force of intellect, what fiery sensibilities speak 
from these eloquent pages ! Strong feelings and strong 
expressions meet the eye and touch the heart at every 
turn, but there is no cant, no doubt, no wavering. 
Who upon listening to the outpouring of such a pas- 
sionate soul, and having his sympathies awakened for 
the unhappy lovers, does not shrink from contem- 
plating the abrupt and disastrous denouement! If we 
have been interested in the story we are saddened by 
learning that after all those protestations of devoted 
love and enduring constancy, Mirabeau and Sophie 
should subsequently meet only for mutual recrimina- 
tion and a final parting. Does it shake faith in the 
permanency of affection to hear of such an issue to 
what was once so firm and sincere? All men, it is true, 



222 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 

are not morally — or immorally — like Mirabeau : but 
neither can all men love like Mirabeau, and his ex- 
cessive susceptibility to the most tyrannical of human 
passions compels us to judge his conduct accordingly. 

Can a man of cold temperament conceive of the 
fierceness with which passion rages in those whose 
" strongest oaths are straw to the fire i' the blood" ? 

In the " Memoirs of Lady Morgan" we find sundry 
racy letters proving that the courtship of that lady 
and her future husband — then simply Dr. Morgan — 
was of the stormiest kind, more than once threatening 
to end disastrously, and preserved intact only by the 
strong affection and noble character of the lover. In 
a letter to a friend communicating her engagement, 
Miss Owenson says of her lover: 

" To give you any idea of the passion I have most 
unwittingly inspired would be vain ; but if I had spirits 
I could amuse you not a little. Tell Livy to repeat 
to you some of his eloquent nonsense which I wrote 
to her. Barring his wild, unfounded love for me, the 
creature is perfection. The most manly, I had almost 
said daring, tone of mind, united to more goodness of 
heart and disposition than I ever met with in a human 
being. Even with this circle, where all is acquirement 
and accomplishment, it is confessed that his versatility 
of talent is unrivalled. There is scarcely any art or 
science he has not cultivated with success ; and the 
resources of his mind and memory are exhaustless. 
His manners are too English to be popular with the 
Irish ; and though he is reckoned a handsome man, it 
is not that style of thing which, if I were to choose 
for beauty, I should select — it is too indicative of 
goodness ; a little diablerie would make me wild in 



GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 



?■?<!> 



love with him. . . . He is just thirty, has a moderate 
property, independent of his profession ; is a member 
and a fellow of twenty colleges and societies, and is a 
Cambridge man. This is a full-length picture drawn 
for your private inspection." 

To another friend she says : 

" He is sometimes so daring in risking his bold and 
singular opinions, that while it raises him in my es- 
teem, it makes me tremble for his worldly interests, so 
seldom promoted by this sovereign independence of 
principle and spirit, which throws rank and influence 
at such an incalculable distance. He is, with all this 
deep philosophy of character, a most accomplished 
gentleman. He speaks and writes several languages, 
and is a scientific musician, a devoted naturalist, and 
has studied every branch of natural history with suc- 
cess. With these resources of mind, I never saw a 
wretch so thrown upon the heart for his happiness, or 
so governed by ardent and unruly passion, of which 
his most romantic engouement for me is a proof. I 
have refused and denied him over and over again, 
because if it is not in worldly circumstances a very 
good match for me, it is still worse for him. I am 
still putting it off from day to day, but fear I am too 
far committed to recede with honour." 

In the interval preceding their marriage, while Miss 
Owenson is in Dublin immersed in a round of gayeties 
and coquetries, playing heartily her role of a woman 
at once young, impetuous, brilliant, admired, flattered, 
and not over-much in love with her absent lover, he 
writes as follows : 

"Your reasonings are all very fine and conclusive; 
but, alas, I parted with reason to a certain little co- 



224 



GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 



quette, and I can attend to and feel no language but 
that of the heart. Still, however, I must insist upon 
my distinction, that while I am ready to give up every 
thing to your lovely amiable family feelings, I can ill 
brook your associating any unpleasant idea with that 
of returning to me. 

" If I know my heart, neither solitude, sickness, nor 
slavery would be unpalatable, if it gave me back to 
Glorvina. ... I have but one object in life, and it is 
you ; and so little can I bear the idea of your prefer- 
ring any thing to me, that I have been angry with 
Olivia when she has had too much of your attention. 
Indeed, indeed it is because I love, that I cannot sup- 
pose it possible any feeling of disgust, or ennui, can 
associate itself with your return to me, and, I would 
fain hope, happiness. 

" If you knew me you would not combat my feel- 
ings by your affected stoicism ; you would flatter my 
vanity with the idea of the separation being as painful 
to you as to me; you would soothe me with tender- 
ness, and not shock me with badinage. . . . There is 
but one commission about which I am anxious, and 
that is to love me as I do you, exclusively ; to prefer 
me to every other good ; to think of me, speak of me, 
write to me, and to look forward to our union as the 
completion of every wish, for so do I by you. Do 
this, and though you grow as ' ugly' as Sycorax, you 
will never lose in me the fondest, most doating, affec- 
tionate of husbands. 

" Glorvina, I was born for tenderness ; my business 
in life is to love. Cultivate, then, the latent feelings of 
the heart; learn to distrust the imagination, and to de- 
spise and quit the world, before the world leaves you." 



GREA TER THAN SCEPTRES. 2 2$ 

Again he writes : " Review your own conduct to 
me, and think how very unnecessarily you have tor- 
tured with repeated promises, all evaded; while each 
letter has been a direct contradiction of the last. It 
is not the lapse of time I so much regret; and in what- 
ever way our loves may terminate, / beg you to carry 
that in your remembrance. The same effort of self- 
denial, which gave you one month, would have given 
you three, had you asked it seriously and firmly. It 
is the eternal fiddling upon nerves untuned by love 
(perhaps too romantic) for you, that I cannot bear 
the repeated frustration of hope. 

" The evident preference you give to general society 
over mine, — your very dread of this place, — the insta- 
bility of your affections as depicted in your letters, are 
all sources of agony greater than I can endure, and it 
must have an end. . . . The love I require is no ordi- 
nary affection. The woman who marries me must 
be identified with me. I must have a large bank of 
tenderness to draw upon. I must have frequent pro- 
fession, and frequent demonstration of it. Woman's 
love is all in all to me; it stands in place of honours 
and riches, and, what is yet more, in place of tran- 
quillity of mind and ease; without it there is a void 
in existence that deprives me of all control of myself, 
and leads me to headlong dissipation as a refuge from 
reflection." 

" Ich weiss dass Sie mich lieben, ich spurs daran 
dass ich Sie so Lieb habe," writes Goethe to Frau von 
Stein. Not always prudent for a lover to judge thus 
of a woman's heart by his own, but natural enough 
in one of imaginative temperament. Throughout this 
series of letters and notes we find incessant vivid 



226 GREA TER THAN SCEPTRES. 

flashes of the master-passion, relieved by those inter- 
vals of calm delight which the poet's entire nature 
experienced in the warm and steadfast friendship of 
this refined and cultured woman. 

" Boundless love and confidence have become a 
habit with me," he writes, " and since your departure 
not a word from my true inner self has passed my lips. 
A thousand thoughts ebb and flow within, and my 
soul is like incessant, eternal fireworks. . . . 

" Yesterday and day before yesterday I fulfilled 
my duties. But what is duty unless animated by the 
presence of love? . . . 

" My love is like the morning- and evening-star, 
which sets after the sun and rises again before it, 
or rather like a constellation, which never sets, but 
weaves over our heads a perpetual living wreath. 

"I pray that the gods may never obscure these rays 
which illumine my path of life. . . . 

" I cannot say, scarcely even acknowledge to myself, 
what a transformation your love has wrought within 
my soul. It is a condition which, old as I am, I do 
not understand. Who indeed can thoroughly com- 
prehend love ? . . . 

"The sky is overcast, but I will not grumble, for 
when with you every thing around me is bright. In the 
stillness of the morning I offered homage to woman, 
and to you in particular. Your sex cannot possibly 
neglect what it loves, and its favor is always active 
and beneficent. May the repose and peace of mind 
which you have restored to me be experienced by 
you, and may whatever good arises from that state 
to myself or others be also yours. Believe me, I am 
quite a changed man, and with the return of my 



GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 227 

natural benevolence I feel again the joy of living". 
You have given back to me that enjoyment in well- 
doing which I had wholly lost. Even then I did it 
only from instinct, and failed to get the true flavor 
from it. Adieu! Would that this could always con- 
tinue, whether face to face or upon paper. How I 
shrink from the thought of parting from you ! 

" I thank the gods for having bestowed upon me 
the power to embody in lyrical song what is ever stir- 
ring within my soul. ... In order to show myself 
worthy of your love and the happy hours you grant 
me, I shall devote the day to industry and order. I 
see before me a day filled up with work and an even- 
ing with pleasure, if you will permit me to come at 
sunset and say how truly I love and honor you. . . . 

" Your love makes me feel as if I were no longer 
living in tents and huts, but had received a gift of a 
well-built house in which I can live and die and store 
away all my goods. . . . O thou best one ! I have 
all my life cherished an ideal wish as to how I desired 
to be loved, but sought in vain for its fulfilment amid 
the illusions of fancy; and now that the world is daily 
becoming clearer to me I find it at last in you, and 
feel that it can never be lost. . . . 

" Lebe wohl, liebes Leben. If you only write that 
you have slept well, it strengthens me anew for the 
whole day. Heaven preserve you! Since your love 
has given me such rest and serenity, every thing in 
the world seems clear and precious. When among 
people I whisper your name to myself, and consent 
to live away from you only for your sake. . . . 

" Who can portray love ? The simplest and yet 
most whimsical thing in that whimsical combination 



228 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 

called mankind. Like a child at one time managed 
by a miserable toy and at another not to be tempted 
by the richest treasures ; or like a constellation whose 
path we think to calculate like that of the sun, but 
which often deceives the observer more absolutely 
than a comet or an ignis fatuus." 

The great German philosopher Fichte, writing to 
his betrothed Johanna Rahn, says: "I hasten, first 
of all, to answer your question, — Whether my friend- 
ship for you has arisen from want of intimacy with 
others of your sex ? To this I can answer very de- 
cidedly : I have known various kinds of women and 
have stood towards them in various relations ; have 
passed through, if not the different degrees, yet prob- 
ably the different kinds of sensations which your sex 
inspires ; but towards no one have I ever experienced 
what I now experience towards you. Such an entire 
confidence, wholly without suspicion in your ingenu- 
ousness, without a wish on my part to appear to you 
other than I am ; such an attachment in which sex 
has not the slightest perceptible influence — 'farther 
than this it is not permitted to mortal to know his 
heart; — such a true esteem for a woman's intellect 
and submission to her decisions, I have never before 
known. Judge then yourself whether it is through 
lack of intercourse with other women, that you make 
an impression which no other ever before made, and 
which teaches me an altogether new mode of feeling." 
Again : " I have lived a great deal since then, having 
been in that sphere of downright, inexorable, multi- 
farious work, where I feel at home. Could I but have 
filled the intervals of these occupations with your dear 
presence, have thought and felt aloud with your noble 



GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 



229 



and congenial soul, upon those subjects which for the 
most part had to be repressed, these days would have 
been enviable." 

In March, 1791, writing- from Leipsic in reference to 
the approaching termination of their long courtship, 
he says : 

" Is it true, or is it a sweet dream that I am really 
soon about to possess the purest happiness of my life, 
to claim as my own the noblest of souls, the one 
chosen from all others and presented to me by the 
Creator? That my joy and my peace will be the 
supreme objects of her wishes, cares, and devotions? 
Would that I could impart to these words that ardor 
and intensity which at this very moment agitate my 
breast and threaten to rend it ! 

"Take me, dearest of women, with all my faults! 
Indeed, it is a source of comfort to me to think that 
I can give myself wholly to one who accepts these 
faults as part of myself; that she has wisdom and 
courage enough to love me spite of these faults, and 
to help me eradicate them, so that eventually I may 
be purified and appear with her before Him who 
created us for each other. Never have I realized 
these faults more keenly than upon receiving your 
last letter, which reminded me of all the puerilities 
and weak discouragement which filled my last letter. 
What little cause, indeed, I have for self-satisfaction ! 
Hitherto people have praised me for firmness of char- 
acter, and perhaps I have been vain enough to believe 
it. Must it not have been circumstances that won me 
that opinion, since now I find that instead of govern- 
ing myself I have permitted my soul to be colored by 
objects around me ? With immense expectations to 

20* 



230 



GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 



which I had no right whatever, I left Zurich, and 
shortly saw my hopes shattered. From despair more 
than from taste I threw myself into the philosophy of 
Kant, and found a repose which probably was due to 
my good health and the tendency of my imagination. 
I was so mistaken that I thought the sublime ideas I 
drilled into my memory came from my own conscious- 
ness rather than from any outward source. Circum- 
stances led me to another and less congenial occupa- 
tion, and lo ! it needed only the changed mode of life, 
the winter weather which never suits me, an indisposi- 
tion, and the distractions of a little journey, to disturb 
the peace so firmly implanted by the great philosopher 
and throw me into a miserable ill-humor ! Shall I 
always be driven hither and thither like a wave of the 
sea ? Take me to yourself, you dear stronger soul, 
and fix firmly this instability! 

"And yet, while accusing myself thus, how rejoiced 
I am to pour out my heart to one who knows herself 
and me too well to misunderstand me ! One of my 
sentiments may be safely exempted from instability, 
for never even in thought have I swerved in the least 
from you ; and it is a touching proof of your noble- 
ness of mind that amid all your tender anxiety for me 
you never once alluded to it." 

In the letters of Abelard and Heloise, which have 
lived through so many centuries, what a striking con- 
trast between the warmth and tenderness on her side 
and the cruel coldness on his ! 

"How sweet a pleasure," writes Heloise, "to re- 
ceive a letter from an absent friend ! If the portraits 
of our friends afford a pleasing deception to our eyes, 
and assuage the regrets of separation by a phantom of 



GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 23 1 

consolation, how much greater joy should we not re- 
ceive from letters which bring us so true an impres- 
sion of the absent one! 

" Heaven be praised, this means is still yours : 
nothing forbids it, no difficulty prevents it; let me 
entreat you then not to let the delay proceed from 
your negligence!" 

What a series of passionate reproaches she pours 
forth to her ungrateful husband and unchristian 
brother in Christ! In speaking of his neglect towards 
her and her sister nuns, she says : " O my master, 
can nothing — neither Christian charity, nor my love 
for you, nor the example of the holy fathers — move 
you in our favor? In my wavering faith and the 
wretched sadness of my heart you have abandoned 
me; your voice has not rejoiced my ear, neither have 
your letters consoled my solitude. Has not the sacra- 
ment of marriage united us to each other? In losing 
you, I lost every thing; in thinking of you, the great- 
ness of my loss is effaced in the incomparable grief 
which I feel in the manner of my loss. The more 
poignant my anguish, the more it craves a fitting con- 
solation. And it is not from any one else, but from 
you alone that I expect it; from the source of my 
misfortunes should flow also the healing balm. In 
obeying you and entering this cloister, did I not 
sacrifice myself? 

"Neither riches nor power constitute a man's supe- 
riority, one being the result of fortune, the other of 
merit. Let the woman who more willingly marries a 
rich man than a poor one, and who seeks in a husband 
rank rather than himself, remember that she sells her- 
self. Assuredly she who has been led to marriage 



232 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 

by such a calculation may look for the value of her 
bargain and not for grateful tenderness. She was 
attracted by fortune, not by the personal attributes of 
her husband, and possibly may regret her inability to 
sell herself to a richer purchaser. . . . 

"Since your presence is denied me, your words 
might express your thoughts, at least bring before me 
the charm of your countenance. You are not defi- 
cient in language, and how shall I have confidence in 
your promise if I am forced to accuse you of avarice 
in words ? You know well that it was not devotion 
but simply an order from your lips which plunged my 
youth into the severe discipline of a convent. And is 
not my sacrifice wholly wasted if you take no account 
of it? 

"And dare I think that God will accept this sacrifice 
when I have done nothing through love of him ? . . . 
In the name of Him to whom you are consecrated, I 
beseech you to grant me your presence in the only 
manner in which it is possible, that is by the precious 
consolation of a letter. Thus strengthened, I can at 
least apply myself with augmented fervor to my re- 
ligious duties. Formerly when you desired to lead 
me into worldly pleasures, you plied me incessantly 
with letters. Every day your sonnets celebrated your 
Heloise; every public place, every house, resounded 
with my name. Cannot that eloquence which once 
incited me to earthly joys now lend itself to the holy 
office of leading me towards heaven ? Once more, 
remember your duties and bear in mind my request. 
I finish this long letter by a short ending : Adieu. 
You are my all in all." 

To these most just reproaches from the noblest and 



GREA TER THAN SCEPTRES. 



233 



tenderest of women, Abelard replies in the following 
cold and unsatisfactory words : 

" If you have heard no word of exhortation or of 
consolation from me since we gave up the world for 
religion, do not impute it to my negligence: the con- 
fidence inspired by your wisdom is the sole cause. 

" I did not think such assistance necessary for one 
whom Heaven has enriched with all the gifts of grace, 
and who by the superiority of her language and ex- 
ample is herself capable of recalling those who are led 
astray, to sustain those who waver, to re-animate those 
who become lukewarm. You have long been accus- 
tomed to fulfil this mission, indeed, ever since you were 
a prioress, subordinate to an abbess. If you now watch 
over your young girls with the same zeal you then 
manifested for your sisters, it is not strange that my 
exhortations and precepts should appear to me en- 
tirely superfluous. Nevertheless, if you in your humil- 
ity think otherwise, and in matters pertaining to God 
desire to be directed by my instructions, tell me upon 
what subject I shall write, so that I may enlighten 
you as God may give me power. . . . 

" Should the Lord deliver me into the hands 6f my 
persecutors and I should fall under their assaults, or 
if, far from you, some other accident should terminate 
my life, I entreat you to have my body transferred to 
your cemetery. The sight of my grave will be a daily 
reminder to our sisters in Christ to pour out more 
frequently their supplications to Heaven for me. . . . 
Finally, what I beg of you above all else is to convey 
that affectionate solicitude awakened in you by the 
perils of my body to the welfare of my soul. By thus 
according me the special and particular aid of your 



234 GREA TER THAN SCEPTRES. 

prayers, you can testify to me when dead how much 
you cherished me when living." 

To which homily from the brilliant scholar and 
once eloquent lover, Helo'ise very naturally replies : 

" We expected consolation, and find only redoubled 
grief: the hand which should assuage our tears has 
caused them to flow more abundantly. Who among 
us could withhold her tears upon reading that passage 
of your letter: 'If the Lord should deliver me into 
the hands of my persecutors,' etc. . . . 

" O most dear one, how could your mind conceive 
such thoughts ? How could your lips express them ? 
May the Lord never so forget his poor servants as to 
make them survive your loss ! — never compel us to 
endure a life far less endurable than any kind of death! 
Have pity upon us, O master, and spare us, I entreat 
you, such words as those. Do not augment our grief 
already so profound, and take from us the little vitality 
we still retain. Each day brings its own sorrow, 
and the fatal instant of which you speak, one steeped 
in bitterness, would cause anguish enough to those 
doomed to endure it. ' Of what use,' says Seneca, 'to 
anticipate evil, to lose life before death !' 

" Dearly-loved one ! If some accident, you say, 
should cut short your days, you beg us to have your 
remains brought to our cemetery, so that our prayers 
incessantly called forth by your memory should in- 
sure you a richer treasure in heaven. Alas ! can you 
then think us capable of forgetting you ? When our 
souls are overwhelmed and plunged into a chaos of 
grief, when by a single blow we are deprived of both 
reason and language, when despair appeals almost to 
God, and takes the form of rage rather than of resig- 



GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 235 

nation, is that a time we could give to prayers? To 
weep — this would be the only thing left for us un- 
happy ones — praying would be out of our power. We 
should be more anxious to follow you than to order 
your burial. In losing you we should lose our true 
life, and if that sustenance were taken how could we 
continue to live ? The bare idea of your death is 
death for us. ... Have pity upon your sisters ! I 
ask it of you on my knees — have pity at least for her 
who is yours entirely. 

"Expunge those words which pierce our souls like 
swords of death and cause us greater agony than 
death itself. A heart broken by grief cannot be calm, 
and a soul invested with troubles is but ill fitted for 
heavenly ardor. ... If I lose you, is not hope utterly 
dead to me ? Why should I prolong a pilgrimage 
which I endure only through you ? And yet what can 
you henceforth be to me? To know that you are 
living is my only consolation ; I am dead to any other 
pleasure. Your presence might sometimes restore me 
to myself, but this is refused me. 

" Oh, unhappiest of unhappy women ! Most wretched 
among the wretched! Your love had elevated me 
above all my sex, and now hurled from my throne I 
have expiated all by the magnitude of my fall. 

" The greater the elevation the more terrible the 
downfall ! Among women of noble and powerful 
houses is there one whose fortune, I will not say 
exceeded, but equalled mine? Is there one who has 
fallen from such a height into such an abyss? 

"In you what glory awaited me! Through you 
likewise what a frightful catastrophe befell me ! Both 
in favor and disgrace Fortune pushed every thing to 



236 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 

extremes, lavishing upon me good and evil without 
stint. In order to make me the most miserable of 
women she first made me the happiest, so that in 
viewing the whole extent of my loss I might mingle 
lamentation with grief, and the bitterness of regret 
with the sweetness of lost joys." 

In response to the anguish and devoted affection 
of Helo'ise, Abelard sends several pages of explanation 
concerning certain scriptural points, and then says : 

" Why do you reproach me with having caused you 
to share my anxieties, since your entreaties forced me 
to speak of them ? Would it be well for you to be in 
a state of joy while I am enduring this cruel punish- 
ment existence has entailed upon me? Would you 
wish to share with me only hours of happiness, not 
those of misery? Do you wish to rejoice with those 
who rejoice and not to weep with those who weep? 
The distinctive characteristic of false and true friends 
is that the former associate with us only in our pros- 
perity, the latter in our adversity. Cease, I beg of 
you, such reproaches, and repress those complaints 
which are so utterly at variance with the true spirit 
of charity. If you think I have not been considerate 
enough for your feelings, remember that in the immi- 
nent perils which surround me and make death possi- 
ble at any instant, it is my duty to provide for the 
salvation of my soul while there is yet time. 

"If you love me truly you will not grudge me this 
precaution. If indeed you had any trust in divine 
compassion towards me, you would fervently pray for 
the day that will deliver me from all those afflictions 
which you well know are unbearable. Of what awaits 
me in the next life I know nothing ; but of what I 



GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 



237 



shall be delivered in this one there can be no doubt. 
Death is always a boon if it terminates a wretched 
life, and those who sympathize honestly with the mis- 
fortunes of others must desire that they shall be fin- 
ished even at the cost of personal affection. An event 
that is happy for our friends may be fatal to our ten- 
derest affections. Thus a mother who sees her son 
tortured by sickness, without hope of cure, must wish 
that even death should put an end to such suffering; 
and one who loves his friend must prefer that he 
should be happy even at a distance, rather than to 
have him at his side and know him to be the victim 
of ills which cannot be remedied. Now I am mis- 
erable, and even in this condition am denied your 
presence : henceforth, indeed, I am so entirely beyond 
every possible arrangement which could promise you 
any joy that I really cannot understand why you 
should prefer for me a life of such crucifixion to a 
death of deliverance. If you desire that my misery 
should be prolonged for your own satisfaction, are 
you not my enemy rather than friend ? And should 
this suspicion alarm you, let it remind you to repress 
your murmurs." 

If we may judge a man by his own words, Abe- 
lard, the celebrated scholar and still more celebrated 
lover, would have stood upon much better terms with 
posterity if he had not written that famous " Letter 
to a Friend," wherein he says so much that for the 
sake of romance no less than for the sake of Helo'ise 
we could wish unsaid. After portraying the prin- 
cipal events of his career as student, philosopher, and 
teacher, he says : 

" Prosperity, however, always inflates fools, and 



238 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 

security in worldly matters enervates the vigor of the 
soul and easily breaks its springs by the illusory at- 
tractions of the flesh. Regarding myself as the sole 
philosopher in the world, and fearing no obstacle to 
my advancement, I began to give a loose rein to my 
passions, I who had heretofore lived in the strictest 
continence. The farther I advanced in philosophy and 
theological science, the farther I was removed, by the 
impurity of my life, from philosophers and saints. . . . 
I was wholly consumed by the fever of pride and 
luxury, when the divine grace interposed to cure me 
of these two ills, — first of luxury, and then of pride." 

Following these words comes an extraordinary 
confession regarding his first acquaintance with and 
subsequent designs upon the object of his passion : 

" There was a young girl in Paris named Helo'ise. 
She was the niece of a canon named Fulbert, who, in 
his tenderness for her, had neglected nothing that 
could render her education complete and brilliant. 
Her beauty was of no common order, and the extent 
of her acquirements made her superior to all her sex. 
This quality, so rare in women, was all the more 
remarkable in a person so very young. Her fame 
indeed had spread all over the kingdom. Seeing her, 
then, adorned with all those charms which ordinarily 
allure lovers, I conceived the project of drawing her 
into a liaison, an undertaking which seemed to pre- 
sent but few difficulties. My name had become so 
renowned, my graces of youth and perfection of form 
gave me so unquestioned a superiority over other 
men, that I might without hesitation have offered my 
homage to any woman in the land ; and this without 
fear of refusal, for whichever one I chose would have 



GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 239 

deemed herself but too much honored by my love. 
This conviction led me to suppose that the young 
girl would easily be persuaded to yield to my wishes : 
moreover, the resources of her mind and her zeal for 
study lent greater probability to my hopes. Even 
when separated, I reasoned, we could be together by 
means of letters, and the pen being bolder than the 
tongue, a delightful intercourse might thus be per- 
petuated. My heart being thus completely enamored 
of this young girl, I sought an opportunity of knowing 
her, of familiarizing her with me, and thus leading her 
the more readily to the desired end. For this purpose 
I induced some of Fulbert's friends to interest them- 
selves in my behalf, and finally they succeeded in 
gaining his consent to take me in his house to board 
at a price fixed by himself. I gave as a pretext that 
the annoyances of household affairs interfered with 
my studies and necessitated too much expense. Ful- 
bert was very avaricious, and remarkably anxious to 
facilitate the mental culture of his niece. In min- 
istering to these two passions, my own purpose was 
accomplished." 

Surely no man ever had the hardihood to conceive 
a more infamous project; and the recording it in such 
cold-blooded language brands the author so deeply 
that no lapse of time can appease the indignation his 
villainy arouses. 

Neither do the incidents of his subsequent life evince 
any proof of that nobility of soul which, when passion 
has subsided, views with horror and remorse the havoc 
thus caused. 

The biographies of poets open a curious page in 



240 



GREA TER THAN SCEPTRES. 



testimony of the power of imagination upon that pas- 
sion which so often makes its victim exclaim : 

" Love bade me swear, and love bids me forswear. 
O sweet-suggesting love, if thou hast sinn'd, 
Teach me, thy tempted subject, to excuse it." 

Of Burns we are told that he was constantly under 
the spell of some fair enchantress, and that the mani- 
festations often nearly equalled in intensity those of 
the celebrated Sappho. Also, that when young his 
love was rarely bestowed upon one higher in rank 
than himself, but that even when others failed to see 
any special attractions his ever -fertile imagination 
readily endowed her with abundant charms and 
graces. 

He himself tells us that he never should have 
turned poet save for the influence of love which 
brought rhyme and song spontaneously from his 
heart. 

" Far beyond all other impulses of my heart," he 
writes, " was un penchant a V adorable moitie du genre 
humain. My heart was completely tinder, and was 
eternally lighted up by some goddess or other. . . . 
Whenever I want to be more than ordinary in song, 
do you imagine I fast and pray for the celestial ema- 
nation ? Tout au contraire, I put myself on a regimen 
of admiring a fine woman." 

To Miss Chalmers he confesses : " My worst enemy 
is moi-meme. I lie so miserably open to the inroads 
and incursions of a mischievous, light-armed, well- 
mounted banditti, under the banners of imagination, 
whim, caprice, and passion; and the heavy-armed 
veteran regulars of wisdom, prudence, and forethought 



GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 24 1 

move so very, very slow, that I am almost in a state 
of perpetual warfare, and alas ! frequent defeat." 

To another friend, Miss Alexander, he says: "Poets 
are such outre beings, so much the children of way- 
ward fancy and capricious whim, that I believe the 
world generally allows them a larger latitude in the 
laws of propriety than the sober sons of judgment and 
prudence." 

To his celebrated " Clarinda " he writes : " I do not 
know if you have a just idea of my character, but I 
wish you to see me as I am. I am, as most people of 
my trade are, a strange Will-o'-Wisp being; the victim, 
too frequently, of much imprudence and many follies. 
My great constituent elements are pride and passion. 
The first I have endeavored to humanize into integrity 
and honor; the last makes me a devotee to the 
warmest degree of enthusiasm in love, religion, or 
friendship — either of them, or all together, as I hap- 
pen to be inspired. 

" 'Tis true, I never saw you but once ; but how 
much acquaintance did I form with you in that once! 
Do not think I flatter you or have a design upon you, 
Clarinda: I have too much pride for the one, and too 
little cold contrivance for the other ; but of all God's 
creatures I ever could approach in the beaten way of 
my acquaintance, you struck me with the deepest, the 
strongest, the most permanent impression. I say the 
most permanent, because I know myself well and 
how far I can promise either in my prepossessions 
or powers. ... 

" Shall we not meet in a state, some yet unknown 
state of being, where the lavish hand of plenty shall 
minister to the highest wish of benevolence, and 



242 



GREA TER THAN SCEPTRES. 



where the chill north wind of prudence shall never 
blow over the flowery fields of enjoyment? . . . 

" What a strange, mysterious faculty is that thing 
called imagination ! We have no ideas almost at all 
of another world; but I have often amused myself 
with visionary schemes of what happiness might be 
enjoyed by small alterations — alterations that we can 
fully enter into, in this present state of existence. 
For instance, suppose you and I just as we are at 
present, the same reasoning powers, sentiments, and 
even desires ; the same fond curiosity for knowledge 
and remarking observation in our minds — and ima- 
gine our bodies free from pain, and the necessary sup- 
plies for the wants of nature at all times and easily 
within our reach; imagine further that we were set 
free from the laws of gravitation which bind us to 
this globe, and could at pleasure fly, without incon- 
venience, through all the yet unconjectured bounds 
of emotion — what a life of bliss should we lead in 
our mutual pursuit of virtue and knowledge, and our 
mutual enjoyment of friendship and love! . . . 

" I have been tasking my reason, Clarinda, why a 
woman, who, for native genius, poignant wit, strength 
of mind, generous sincerity of soul, and the sweetest 
female tenderness, is without a peer, and whose per- 
sonal charms have few, very, very few parallels among 
her sex ; why, or how she should fall to the blessed 
lot of a poor harum-scarum poet whom Fortune had 
kept for her particular use, to wreak her temper on 
whenever she was in ill-humor. 

" One time I conjectured, that as Fortune is the 
most capricious jade ever known, she may have. taken, 
not a fit of remorse, but a paroxysm of whim, to raise 



GREA TER THAN SCEPTRES. 



243 



the poor devil out of the mire where he had so often 
and so conveniently served her as a stepping-stone, 
and given him the most glorious boon she ever had 
in her gift, merely for the maggot's sake to see how 
his fool head and fool heart will bear it. At other 
times I was vain enough to think that Nature, who 
has a great deal to say with Fortune, had given the 
coquettish goddess some such hint as, ' Here is a 
paragon of female excellence, whose equal, in all my 
former compositions, I never was lucky enough to hit 
on, and despair of ever doing so again; you have cast 
her rather in the shades of life ; there is a certain poet 
of my making; among your frolics it would not be 
amiss to attach him to this master-piece of my hand, 
to give her that immortality among mankind which 
no woman, of any age, ever more deserved, and which 
few rhymesters of this age are better able to confer.' " 

Like many other poets, Burns was perpetually in 
love with Love, and whoever most resembled the 
ideal within his own mind became the actual idol of 
the hour. 

In such cases, words of glowing admiration or elo- 
quent persuasion may be uttered, and endearments 
interchanged, while the object remains simply a 
representative of Love, liable to be displaced at any 
moment by superior beauty, charm of manner, or 
caprice. Does not the prosaic mind hear with a 
smile of incredulity that Dante was only nine years 
old and Beatrice eight when they first met? — that 
the impression then made was so deep that thence- 
forth his mind was filled with her beauty and grace, 
although he himself tells us that the sentiment in- 
spired was of so spiritual a. nature that " Amore" 



244 



GREA TER THAN SCEPTRES. 



never ruled him wholly without reason ? And this 
passion continued to glow throughout Dante's whole 
career, one filled to the brim with the vicissitudes 
incident to political strife, domestic unhappiness, reli- 
gious persecution, and literary enthusiasm. Nothing 
could render him inconstant to the beautiful woman 
his imagination had chosen for its sovereign, and 
amid the bitterest trials her image and her virtues 
proved the unceasing inspiration of his genius. 

Of the nature of Petrarch's passion for Laura vari- 
ous and contradictory accounts have been handed 
down, from all of which, however, one deduction may 
be safely accepted. Had Fate permitted him to woo 
and win in conventional mode the being Love had 
clothed in such transcendent beauty, his imagination 
would have lacked the stimulant which evoked those 
immortal sonnets, and romance would have lost an 
episode which has been fondly cherished throughout 
centuries of outward change and progress. The poet 
himself confesses the impossibility of explaining the 
effects of the passion that swayed him, and in ardent 
language portrays the extravagant vagaries of his 
heart and the supreme happiness his mind found in 
dwelling upon the perfections of the woman he had 
idealized. 

If the most brilliant scholars and world-renowned 
poets are thus bewildered by this deepest of life's 
many enigmas, how much greater must be the con- 
fusion in ordinary minds ! One fact, however, all re- 
cords demonstrate with unquestionable proof: love as 
a sentiment or a passion attains the highest perfec- 
tion when possession of the loved object is denied, 



GREA TER THAN SCEPTRES. 245 

intellectual conception and susceptibility of feeling 
investing it with those brilliant tints which when 
confronted with reality inevitably fade. Imagination 
cannot always be on the wing, but its flights are 
always higher and more sustained when earthly joys 
are withheld. 

In Spielhagen's " Problematische Naturen," Olden- 
burg writes to Oswald : " If I am not deceived, the 
longing for the ' Blaue Blume' has thrown you into 
a deadly sickness which some fine day will prove 
fatal if that longing is not gratified. You remember, 
doubtless, the ' Blaue Blume' in Novalis' 'Erzahlung' ? 
The 'Blaue Blume'! Do you know what that is? 
It is the flower which no human eye has yet beheld, 
but whose fragrance fills the whole world. All 
beings are not finely enough organized to perceive 
this fragrance, but the nightingale is intoxicated with 
it, when in the moonlight or at dawn he sings and 
wails and sighs. And all those deluded people who 
send up to heaven their sighs and sufferings in prose 
or verse, are similarly intoxicated. — And from this 
sickness is no salvation, none — save in death. Who- 
ever has even once inhaled the fragrance of the 'Blaue 
Blume' can never know another calm hour here on 
earth." 

Alfieri tells us that after encountering his fourth and 
last passion — the Countess of Albany — his heart and 
genius were both equally kindled ; that, instead of 
finding her, like most women, a hindrance to useful 
occupation, a damper to thought, and an obstacle to 
literary glory, he found her a high incentive, a pure 
solace, an alluring example to every noble work. The 
depth and duration of this attachment are fully ex- 



246 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 

pressed in his own words when towards the close of 
his career he speaks of her as " my inseparable com- 
panion with whom I have now shared all the good and 
all the evil of this life for more than thirty-five years, 
and with whom I will share them for ever." 

Rousseau gives an account of the effect of imagina- 
tion in the production of "La Nouvelle Heloise." At 
the age of forty-five he is living at the " Hermitage" 
with Therese and her mother, subjected to endless 
annoyances through the unscrupulousness of the lat- 
ter and her family. His longings for love and friend- 
ship are as unsatisfied as ever, and Therese though 
affectionate and gentle is too illiterate to be a com- 
panion. Their walks and tetes-a-tetes become weari- 
some, and he seeks relief in long solitary rambles. 
Indulging in revery and day-dreaming, his imagina- 
tion filled with men and women created according to 
his own conceptions of character, he dwells upon them 
day after day, and finally plans scenes in which they 
shall act. 

After long meditation upon all the charming spots 
he has visited, he chooses the ground and begins to 
give " l'essor en quelque sorte au desir d'aimer que je 
n'avais pu satisfaire, et dont je me sentais devore." 
Not strange then that one of his susceptible tem- 
perament should see in Mme. de Houdetot — who 
chanced to be in the neighborhood on a visit to Mme. 
d'Epinay — a realization of his imaginary heroine. It 
was during his three months' intoxication with this 
lady that he wrote those famous letters in " Heloise." 
Rousseau asserts that this passion was the first and 
only one in his life, and that the consequences were 
for ever " memorable and terrible :" that although 



GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 



247 



nearly thirty and not " belle," Mme. de Houdetot's 
countenance was animated and pleasing, and a pro- 
fusion of black hair curling naturally reached to her 
knees. A brochure of M. de Musset describes her as 
much disfigured by smallpox, but possessing a fine 
bust, pretty hands and arms, and small feet. " Her 
form," continues Rousseau, "was mignonne, and in all 
her movements there was a piquant combination of 
grace and awkwardness. Her mind was both sprightly 
and original — la gaiete, l'etourderie et la naivete s'y 
marioient heureusement." 

As to her temper, he calls it angelic, gentleness 
being its chief characteristic and her heart being 
incapable of hating, which contributed greatly to 
inflame his heart for her. 

Another authority tells us that when Rousseau, 
towards the latter part of his life, wrote his " Remi- 
niscences," imagination continually mingled with 
memory. His statements — especially those relating 
to Mme. de Houdetot — when compared with exact 
and reliable facts, do not at all resemble the dreamy 
and passionate impressions his retrospective thinking 
furnished. He himself seemed to confound his real 
passion for her with the imaginary one experienced 
for "Julie" in "La Nouvelle Heloise." Mme.de 
Houdetot spoke but little of the period when Rous- 
seau manifested the passion for her which he repre- 
sents as so intense. She said simply that much exag- 
geration had entered into his " Reminiscences;" and 
that if truth were wanting in his "Confessions" it 
was still less perceptible when pertaining to the con- 
fessions of others. In whatever light or with what- 
ever feeling the career of this extraordinary man be 



248 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 

regarded, justice demands that the intensity of his 
imaginative faculty be always borne in mind. With- 
out it he could never have written as he did : with it 
he was subjected to all the fluctuations of rapture and 
misery which that gift entails. 

In reading two " Lives" of Rousseau, one written 
by a man of prosaic, the other by one of poetic tem- 
perament, we should readily discover the widely differ- 
ent impressions to be obtained of the same character 
merely by viewing them through minds of such op- 
posite qualities. The poetic element in man, intent 
upon finding the essence of beauty, grace, and tender- 
ness, but subject meanwhile to ardent human sympa- 
thies which demand partial when denied full satisfac- 
tion, is often led into embarrassing situations which 
draw down the ridicule or the censure of the world. 
Dwelling on indications of the perfection it seeks, the 
heart becomes interested, warmed, impassioned, — and 
while the illusion lasts, love is said to exist. Gradu- 
ally the dream grows less vivid ; coolness, unrest, and 
that yearning for completeness which so often causes 
indifference to objects actually possessed, all these 
press their claims, until suddenly there is a rude 
awaking. The dream is dispelled : love is said to 
cease. 

The poets of all ages and nations — men otherwise 
wholly unlike in character — have invariably mani- 
fested that extreme susceptibility to the master-pas- 
sion which, until it meet with another soul capable of 
responding to and retaining imagination, must inevi- 
tably lead to extravagance and inconstancy. 

Frequently they themselves, when temporarily freed 
from the dominating faculty, see clearly their vagaries 



GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 



249 



and inconsistencies, and form resolves which duly 
regulate action until imagination is again in the as- 
cendant. 

All human beings know the difficulty of the process 
called self-control: whether they admit it or not, they 
are conscious that each hour of each day affords prac- 
tical illustration of the moral force needed to acquire 
even a partial knowledge of that science. If then 
people of average endowments and sensibilities know 
this, they can form a conception of the augmented 
difficulty people of superior mental endowments must 
experience. The gift of imagination alone increases 
a hundredfold the temptations which beset mankind, 
and this in ways so subtle and insidious that a prosaic 
mind would fail utterly to discern the faintest trace of 
the enemy. 

In pronouncing judgment, then, upon the unortho- 
dox conduct often beheld and deplored in poetic 
genius, the harsh censor may well ask himself: Would 
I, if similarly endowed and exposed to similar influ- 
ences, have proved any wiser, any more consistent, 
any more self-controlled ? 



22 



VII- 

MAN AND WOMAN. 



Ueberall weichet das Weib dem Manne ; nur in dem Hochsten 

Weichet dem weiblichsten Weib immer der mannlichste Mann. 

Schiller. 

La nature a feraie la vie d'un nceud triple et absolu : l'homme, la 
femme, et l'enfant. On est sur de perir a part, et on ne se sauve qu'en- 
semble. — Michelet. 

On the whole, I had rather be loved than admired, and, I fear also, 
rather than esteemed. ... I am as convinced as of any mathematical 
fact, that the whole life can give is included in the four magical letters 
home. — Sir Charles Morgan. 



The exquisite fitness of every form of creation to its 
destined end is a ground upon which the equality of 
man and woman may be discussed without danger- of 
rivalry or usurpation on either side. However differ- 
ent in special characteristics, each is the complement 
of the other, and in the most advanced conditions of 
society both delight in the acknowledgment. 

Man — judged from the best types — is strong, reso- 
lute, self-reliant, indomitable; he manifests these at- 
tributes in all his undertakings, faces danger, storms 
difficulty, and yet retains vitality enough for enjoy- 
ment. 

Woman — judged likewise from the best types — is 
250 



MAN AND WOMAN 



251 



timid and compliant, more ready to follow than to 
lead ; strong only in intuition and affection. Perfect 
Manhood — Perfect Womanhood: should be the motto 
of the human race, and for the realization of this 
idea the occupations of the sexes must be widely 
different. 

Considered as created beings, their advantages and 
privileges are equal ; hence, even imperfect human 
laws affect one sex no more than the other, and the 
reproach of " weakness" from the one side and of 
" oppression" from the other, is founded on neither 
fact nor reason. 

Man, when civilized and unperverted, far from wish- 
ing to ill-treat woman, has a constant desire to further 
her endeavors towards suitable enlightenment and re- 
munerative labor. 

That the means he suggests are not always in accord 
with her ideas, is not a proof of his indifference or 
hardness, but merely of a different mental conception. 
Woman, when judiciously educated, taught that the 
minutest details of domestic life become invested 
with dignity when their effect upon human minds and 
hearts is considered, never knows the unrest and 
discontent so generally attributed to that abnormal 
growth of the nineteenth century called the " modern 
woman," but is uniformly happy in her sphere of 
feminine duties. 

What to an imperfectly-educated character appears 
as weary routine and drudgery, in one of higher de- 
velopment becomes labor clothed with worth and 
honor. Among men and women of similar mental 
culture — and every age has furnished instances of this 
possible similarity — we find no clashing of opinions 



252 MAN AND WOMAN. 

and sentiments upon this subject. Man is satisfied 
with his sphere, woman with hers, and mutual com- 
panionship is recognized as the highest type of happi- 
ness. Before both, the world, with its rich treasures 
of wisdom, beauty, and experience, is spread out; and 
to both, the daily round of seemingly insignificant acts 
must grow weighty with the thought that upon indi- 
vidual honesty and skill depend effects greater than 
revolutions. Under all conditions of life their interests 
remain inseparable, and whatever good results are to 
issue from religion, legislation, or society, they must 
proceed from effort directed towards the welfare of 
both. 

No man however poor or uneducated, no woman 
however weak or dependent, can avoid responsibility 
in solving the great problem called " social life :" and 
that many shades of opinion respecting the privileges, 
rights, and wrongs of the sexes should exist, argues 
nothing strange or alarming. From argument and 
controversy pure grains of truth may be extracted, 
and although agitation is never agreeable it brings 
about a new order of things, often in a direction far 
distant from that desired by the agitator. Thus it 
has happened in our own country that many women, 
who otherwise would never have given the subject of 
feminine duties a moment's reflection, have been forced 
into serious and profitable consideration of them by 
the clamor of the Woman's Rights champions. 

Woman's truest friend is the one who teaches her 
how to use her reason : for there are many well fitted 
by nature to grace the highest positions in their 
sphere, who become restless simply because unable 
to discern in which kind of activity true honor lies. 



MAN AND WOMAN. 253 

Hearing and seeing much, but unable to discriminate 
between sound and unsound logic, they fall readily 
under the guidance of any book or individual chancing 
to cross their path. Not too much, but too little 
knowledge makes women unsettled and complaining. 
Even from a utilitarian point this fact is of the utmost 
importance, for few will deny that in any domestic 
post whatsoever, a woman of well-trained mind will 
prove far more efficient than one ignorant and un- 
disciplined. Neither affection, good intentions, nor 
self-sacrifices can counteract the injurious effects of 
an inferior mind at the head of domestic government. 
Indeed, vacuity of mind is so direct a cause of all 
manner of discomfort that the entire influence of 
society should be turned to the subject of sounder 
education for our American girls. To say that the 
responsibility rests with the parents, that outside 
opinion avails little, and that each must take her 
chance, is simply to say : We are weary of it — let 
us leave the dull to their dulness, the frivolous to 
their frivolity, and enjoy intellect and grace where 
we find it. 

Whereas, although many unpleasantly true things 
may be said about young girls as commonly found, 
unqualified censure would be as unwise as unjust. 

Are they not, with modifying conditions of parent- 
age and education, the natural product of the age and 
country? If mothers themselves are not instructed 
as to the high uses of mental culture, how can they 
impress upon their daughters the necessity of devoting 
youth and enthusiasm to pursuits which will develop 
their highest faculties ? 

In running over the long list of defects attributed 
22* 



254 MAN AND WOMAN. 

to the women of this century and of this particular 
part of it, there is scarcely one which might not be 
remedied by fitting culture of the intellect. Observe, 
for instance, the model housekeeper, the woman who 
in the conscientious discharge of her apprehended 
duties wholly ignores the thoughts and sentiments of 
those around her. Absorbed in the practical manage- 
ment of her home, she makes no attempt to under- 
stand the tastes, moods, ambitions, or sensibilities of 
husband or children. This being the case, frequent 
annoyance on their part, perhaps even ill-concealed 
contempt, will ensue; and yet, with but a moderate 
allowance on the woman's side, of that consideration 
for others which usually accompanies culture, the 
disturbing cause would vanish. Even if unable to 
enter into the studies or amusements of others we 
may at least respect them. The incessant worry of 
a housewife who deems every thing — even feelings — 
subordinate to the house and appurtenances, renders 
each working-day of the week a series of distractions 
wellnigh unbearable to a reflective or imaginative 
temperament. Cleanliness, order, and beauty of ar- 
rangement in the home are, doubtless, intended for 
the enhancement of human content ; but when per- 
mitted to supersede the tranquillity without which 
that content is impossible, they fail utterly in their 
design. 

In an instance of this kind remonstrance and com- 
plaint are alike useless, redress for disturbed thought 
and irritated sensibilities unattainable. 

Only when this surplus energy is diverted into 
another channel can the lull ensue which conduces 
to the restoration of the moral system : and this chan- 



MAN AND WOMAN. 



255 



nel must be sought through the mind — philanthropy, 
literature, art, society, all in turn being evoked until 
the fitting vent be discovered. 

Or, to consider those charges of curiosity, gossip, 
vanity, frivolity, wilfulness, fickleness, and similar un- 
desirable qualities commonly — and perhaps with some 
justice — attributed to woman. Instead of condemning, 
ridiculing, sneering, or at best calmly dismissing the 
subject with a significant shrug which says: It is 
woman, — what more could you expect? would it not 
be wiser to give the matter serious attention and dis- 
cover if possible the cause of such defects ? Under 
mental culture what noble purposes those very quali- 
ties might be brought to serve! Curiosity, directed 
to principles instead of to people, to physical or moral 
science rather than to trivial facts, is a faculty well 
meriting respect. Gossip, turned from the details of 
our neighbor's private affairs or of his personal habits 
and tastes, may rise into a genuine interest in hu- 
manity, a means not of amusement but of aiding its 
progress. Vanity, if analyzed, might be found to 
consist mainly of an amiable desire to please by ap- 
propriating certain forms and colors in dress, or cer- 
tain graces of manner and speech. Indulged at the 
cost of self-respect, family duties, or pecuniary means 
intended for more important uses, vanity justly elicits 
disapproval or rebuke; but when subjected to reason 
it lends a charm to many phases of social and domestic 
life. A well-dressed woman, or a beautiful, attractive, 
and graceful one, is not necessarily vain; on the con- 
trary, by attempting to embody in outward form her 
innate sense of beauty, she may yield unspeakable 
pleasure to thousands. 



256 MAN AND WOMAN. 

Indeed, when forced to see or hold converse with 
coarse, hard-featured, ill-dressed women, who are too 
utilitarian to be accused of vanity, we learn how to 
value those results of it which yield taste and beauty 
from small things. 

Frivolity appears to be a natural consequence of 
mental inanity, for youth and health if not directed 
to sensible pursuits will seek diversion in silly ones. 
Can a woman be censured for finding satisfaction in 
puerile amusements or unprofitable companions, if 
her mind be too meagrely furnished to appreciate 
better things ? 

We might with equal justice find fault with a child 
for setting too high a value upon his favorite toy or 
sweetmeats. Human nature — whether in child or 
adult — craves present enjoyment and seeks it with an 
avidity proportioned to physical strength and inherent 
tastes; judicious discipline of mind and heart is the 
only means of tempering that craving and giving it 
wholesome food. 

Wilfulness is an unfortunate combination of igno- 
rance and firmness, proceeding often from a wish to 
escape the charge of incompetency. Yielding as 
women generally do to any masculine mind of 
stronger calibre than their own that chooses to exert 
authority, they occasionally feel urged to assert their 
own power as reasoning beings : and, as often hap- 
pens with spasmodic effort, it is apt to be turned in 
the wrong direction. The harmless nature of wil- 
fulness is seen in the ease with which contradiction 
provokes it. By nature averse to rule, method, or 
monotony, either of these if enforced may induce a 
woman to insist upon certain points for which, in 



MAN AND WOMAN. 257 

reality, she cares not a whit : contradiction gives variety, 
and even censure is preferable to an unbroken calm. 
Fickleness is one of the most easily-accounted-for 
weak points in woman, arising as it does from excess- 
ive susceptibility joined to defective mental training. 

Quick to see, think, feel, and imagine, woman 
stands in special need of a calm judgment which 
shall counteract the effect of such quickness in choos- 
ing new things. From this charge of fickleness few 
women are able to acquit themselves. The clearer 
their intellect the easier for them to see that they 
grow weary over daily tasks and are continually sending 
out tendrils of hope and sentiment in search of some- 
thing new. Nevertheless, this very desire for change, 
and this susceptibility of temperament, may, with 
proper cultivation, develop into adaptability, that 
•quality so indispensable for every woman who would 
live in peace and content. The imagination, too, 
plays an important part in the generation of fickle- 
ness: in many cases amusements, studies, even friends, 
are chosen not for their intrinsic worth, but because 
imagination depicts in glowing colors the advantages 
and pleasures to be derived from them. When reality 
has destroyed this illusion what remains but to seek 
change? In short, among all the accusations brought 
against women in this age there is not one which 
might not be traced to mental imbecility. As for the 
fear expressed by some people that too much learn- 
ing detracts from feminine grace and loveliness, there 
is nothing in the history of woman to support such 
a doctrine ; on the contrary, we find women of the 
most liberal culture making the noblest wives and 
most devoted mothers. 



258 MAN AND WOMAN. 

In an admirable article upon Female Education, 
Sydney Smith bears eloquent testimony to this fact : 

"It is not easy to imagine that there can be any just 
cause why a woman of forty should be more ignorant 
than a boy of twelve years of age. If there be any good 
at all in female ignorance, this (to use a very colloquial 
phrase) is surely too much of a good thing. 

"Something in this question must depend, no doubt, 
upon the leisure which either sex enjoys for the culti- 
vation of their understandings ; — and we cannot help 
thinking that women have fully as much, if not more 
idle time upon their hands than men. Women are 
excluded from all the serious business of the world; 
men are lawyers, physicians, clergymen, apothecaries, 
and justices of the peace — sources of exertion which 
consume a great deal more time than producing and 
suckling children ; so that, if the thing is a thing that 
ought to be done— if the attainments of literature are 
objects really worthy the attention of females, they 
cannot plead the want of leisure as an excuse for in- 
dolence and neglect. The lawyer who passes his day 
in exasperating the bickerings of Roe and Doe, is cer- 
tainly as much engaged as his lady who has the whole 
of the morning before her to correct the children and 
pay the bills. . . . We are speaking always of the fair 
demands which ought to be made upon the time and 
attention of women ; for, as the matter now stands, the 
time of women is considered as worth nothing at all. 
Daughters are kept to occupations in sewing, patch- 
ing, mantua-making, and mending, by which it is im- 
possible they can earn tenpence a day. 

" The intellectual improvement of women is con- 
sidered to be of such subordinate importance, that 



MAN AND WOMAN. 



259 



twenty pounds paid for needle-work would give to a 
whole family leisure to acquire a fund of real knowl- 
edge. 

"They are kept with nimble fingers and vacant un- 
derstandings till the season for improvement is utterly 
passed away, and all chance of forming more impor- 
tant habits completely lost. We do not therefore say 
that women have more leisure than men, if it be 
necessary that they should lead the life of artisans; 
but we make this assertion only upon the supposition, 
that it is of some importance women should be in- 
structed ; and that many ordinary occupations, for 
which a little money will find a better substitute, 
should be sacrificed to this consideration." 

After exposing the fallacy of circumscribing woman's 
culture for fear of its baneful influence upon her do- 
mestic duties, he continues : 

" There is in either sex a strong and permanent dis- 
position to appear agreeable to the other : and this is 
the fair answer to those who are fond of supposing 
that a higher degree of knowledge would make women 
rather the rivals than the companions of men. 

" Presupposing such a desire to please, it seems 
much more probable that a common pursuit should 
be a fresh source of interest than a cause of conten- 
tion. Indeed, to suppose that any mode of education 
can create a general jealousy and rivalry between the 
sexes is so very ridiculous, that it requires only to 
be stated in order to be refuted. The same desire of 
pleasing secures all that delicacy and reserve which 
are of such inestimable value to women. We are 
quite astonished in hearing men converse on such sub- 
jects, to find them attributing such beautiful effects to 



2 6o MAN AND WOMAN. 

ignorance. It would appear, from the tenor of such 
objections, that ignorance had been the great civilizer 
of the world. 

"Women are delicate and refined only because they 
are ignorant ; they manage their household only be- 
cause they are ignorant ; they attend to their children 
only because they know no better. Now we must 
really confess we have all our lives been so ignorant 
as not to know the value of ignorance. 

"We have always attributed the modesty and the. re- 
fined manners of women to their being well taught in 
moral and religious duty — to the hazardous situation 
in which they are placed — to that perpetual vigilance 
which it is their duty to exercise over thought, word, 
and action — and to that cultivation of the mild virtues 
which those who cultivate the stern and magnanimous 
virtues expect at their hands. . . . 

i There is nothing which requires more vigilance 
than the current phrases of the day, of which there 
are always some resorted to in every dispute, and 
from the sovereign authority of which it is often vain 
to make any appeal. ' The true theatre for a woman 
is the sick-chamber;' — 'Nothing so honorable to a 
woman as not to be spoken of at all.' These two 
phrases, the delight of noodledom, are grown into 
commonplaces upon the subject; and are not unfre- 
quently employed to extinguish that love of knowl- 
edge in women, which, in our humble opinion, it is of 
so much importance to cherish. Nothing, certainly, 
is so ornamental and delightful in woman as the 
benevolent affections ; but time cannot be filled up, 
and life employed, with high and impassioned virtues. 
Some of these feelings are of rare occurrence — all of 



MAN AND WOMAN. 26 1 

short duration — or nature would sink under them. A 
scene of distress and anguish is an occasion where the 
finest qualities of the female mind may be displayed ; 
but it is a monstrous exaggeration to tell women that 
they are born only for scenes of distress and anguish. 
Nurse father, mother, sister, and brother, if they want 
it ; it would be a violation of the plainest duties to 
neglect them. 

" But when we are talking of the common occupa- 
tions of life, do not let us mistake the accidents for the 
occupations ; when we are arguing how the twenty- 
three hours of the day are to be filled up, it is idle 
to tell us of those feelings and agitations above the 
level of common existence, which may employ the 
remaining hour. Compassion and every other virtue 
are the great objects we all ought to have in view ; 
but no man (and no woman) can fill up the twenty- 
four hours by acts of virtue. But one is a lawyer, 
and the other a ploughman, and the third a merchant ; 
and then acts of goodness, and intervals of com- 
passion and fine feeling, are scattered up and down 
the common occupations of life. We know women 
are to be compassionate ; but they cannot be compas- 
sionate from eight o'clock in the morning till twelve 
at night : and what are they to do in the interval ?" 

After all has been spoken and written about edu- 
cation as the great need for woman, and character 
as her most enduring charm, it cannot be denied that 
in the opinion of the majority of mankind, beauty 
outstrips them both. And is it strange that there 
should be an instantaneous reverence for the divinest 
work of nature ? If called upon to admire the min utest 
specimen of the animal or the vegetable kingdom, or 



262 MAN AND WOMAN. 

works of art which are merely an imitation of nature, 
may we not with proportionate enthusiasm tender our 
worship at the shrine of female beauty? Here we 
are subjugated at once, without reason, inquiry, or 
prudence, and the apparition is so fair and attractive 
that we shrink from disturbing the pleasurable sen- 
sations awakened by mundane questioning or doubt. 
The effect of female beauty upon men may be readily 
understood when it is remembered that women them- 
selves are highly susceptible to the witching influence. 
Not singular then that a mother should scan with 
anxious eye the existing defects or budding charms of 
her daughter, knowing as every mother does that no 
amount of goodness or cleverness will palliate the one 
or indemnify for the want of the other. Why does 
every woman wish nature had made her beautiful ? 
Does it arise wholly from a desire for admiration, 
power, and fame ? Or, is it not rather from a fine in- 
stinct which tells her that without beauty she can 
never awaken in others those sentiments of delight 
which produce her chief happiness ? No amount of 
moral worth or mental culture can ever bring to 
woman the soothing sense of giving pleasure to others 
involuntarily, by merely appearing, standing, walking, 
or opening her lips : neither will they bring her those 
domestic joys and ties which she craves as naturally 
as she exists. Seeing then — as who can help seeing? 
— that beauty signifies the best of life's blessings, 
that the longing for it or disappointment in not pos- 
sessing it is a result of nature, not of vanity or of 
weakness, it would be utterly futile to attempt to 
eradicate that longing or make light of the disappoint- 
ment. Neither can such an acknowledgment prove 



MAN AND WOMAN. 



263 



hurtful if it rouse women to consider the true nature 
of beauty and to study the immutable laws which 
produce and preserve it. But in beauty, as in all 
else, there are degrees, and few women have not 
some personal advantage which may give pleasure 
to others. 

The second instrument of power in woman's hands 
is manner, and when used with grace and skill it 
makes conquests less sudden but more enduring than 
those of beauty ; conquests in this sense signifying 
not the flippant term of society, but that deeper, 
stronger attraction founded upon intrinsic worth. 
Many women wholly devoid of personal beauty have 
been warmly eulogized as charming because of the 
intelligence, vivacity, and sincerity which receive so 
beautiful an interpretation through eye, word, smile, 
and gesture. 

Can it be true, as we often hear it asserted in de- 
fence of ignorance, that in society men like and en- 
courage silliness in young women, greatly preferring 
it to intelligence and dignity ? If so, then the cause, 
possibly, may be found in the manner of the intelli- 
gent kind, one which through its coldness and appar- 
ent assumption utterly repels men seeking society as 
a relaxation. 

Even among women of refinement there is an in- 
nate dislike to what is called a "superior" woman, 
unless the quality thus designated be veiled by kind- 
ness of heart and gentleness of manner. 

If then women are repelled by the cold, self-com- 
placent manner which too often accompanies unusual 
mental attainments, it is not strange that men should 
be so in a still greater degree.. Were the latter called 



264 MAN AND WOMAN. 

upon to say why in general they find more entertain- 
ment in the society of a silly girl than in that of an 
intelligent one, they might answer somewhat in this 
wise : 

Because, above all things we prefer the gentleness, 
goodness, and unconsciousness of manner which, un- 
fortunately, more frequently accompany "silliness" 
than intelligence. Because, when in society, we want 
— not instruction, censure, or criticism, but rest : eye 
and mind desire beauty and simplicity rather than 
knowledge and special accomplishments. 

Not that we like silliness — Heaven forbid ! — but we 
accept it only when there is no alternative between 
that and indifference or hauteur. But give us the 
brilliant mind and cultivated tastes in addition to the 
heart and natural manner, and our allegiance will 
immediately be transferred. 

With reference to labor or science for woman, so 
many vague and conflicting opinions exist that at first 
sight it is difficult to distinguish true from false, wise 
from unwise. Yet if we believe, as many fine minds 
in both sexes do, that woman's occupation is a matter 
of immense importance to the welfare of the nation, 
we cannot rest until our own principles upon the 
subject are settled. Looking at women as they are, 
under all circumstances and conditions, it seems well- 
nigh incredible that any reasoning being should be 
found advocating the same pursuits for them as for 
men. 

Accepting the doctrine that to do any thing well 
the greater portion of life must be given to it, we may 
ask : How many of our young girls would be willing 



MAN AND WOMAN 265 

to enter the service of state, church, law, or commerce? 
Or, how many, being willing, would be able, physically 
and mentally, to devote their whole time to one oc- 
cupation? That here and there an exceptional woman 
may creditably fill a post in one of the above depart- 
ments, has been clearly demonstrated by fact. All 
honor to those who through dire necessity or convic- 
tion devote themselves to science or business. Viewed 
as abnormal cases and semi-exiles from the amenities 
of woman's true sphere — defrauded as it were of their 
natural rights — they are entitled not only to justice, 
but also to the utmost courtesy and sympathy. Neither 
knowledge, nor assistance, nor toleration should be 
withheld or denied ; but these may be freely given 
without altering our persuasion that their labor would 
be more productive of genuine benefit if otherwise 
directed. 

The direct effect of labor, science, or public life 
upon woman is well worth the attention of those who 
would urge new fields for her tender feet and delicate 
sensibilities. Glancing at those who have adopted 
professions or mingled in public affairs, what is the 
deduction? Is there not a sad, wearied expression 
of countenance? — a something in manner and speech 
indicating dissatisfaction, a protest of the affections, 
possibly, against the denial of their rights ? In fact, 
the very absorption and hard mental work inseparable 
from a profession or business, detract largely from the 
grace, beauty, and content of woman. 

Influenced strongly by her surroundings, the very 
necessity of leaving the tranquil atmosphere of home, 
and being compelled to deal habitually with shrewd, 
worldly-wise people and hard facts, affects her nature 

23* ' 



266 MAN AND WOMAN. 

unfavorably, and develops it into something wholly 
unlike its original self. 

How far is Hawthorne right when he alludes to 
"that wisest but unloveliest variety of woman, a phi- 
losopher" ? But even allowing grace and beauty to 
be subordinate to utility, what would the world gain 
by encouraging women to become politicians, specu- 
lators, railroad directors, city councillors, ministers 
of the gospel, or lawyers! True culture implies, not 
the training of one special faculty, or information upon 
a special subject, but that careful adjustment of the 
mental powers which affords a view of universal 
science and kindles a desire for its comprehension. 
A woman, therefore, might have a thorough knowl- 
edge of medicine, jurisprudence, or mercantile af- 
fairs, and yet be extremely narrow-minded : whereas, 
another woman might possess no special facts or 
experience upon those branches, and yet have a far- 
reaching, liberally-cultured mind. Need we ask which 
would make the more womanly, lovable, and useful 
woman ! Moreover, notwithstanding the opinion of 
certain "advanced" minds concerning the superiority 
of woman's reasoning, investigating, or administrative 
abilities, there seems no secure ground for this belief. 
Judging of future conduct by present acts, what might 
we expect from "emancipated" woman's judgment 
and self-control? Turning to the sphere of home, 
are not acts of gross injustice frequently committed 
by women? servants are pronounced "stupid" for not 
remembering what the mistress forgot, children are 
harassed for lack of the brains nature failed to pro- 
vide, or for the brusqueness of manner caught from 
their parents, and possibly even the master of the 



MAN AND WOMAN. 267 

mansion himself is twitted for not being better-looking, 
better-tempered, or more successful in business. 

In the question of Labor vs. Wages, we find too, 
that the average woman manifests no greater degree 
of philanthropy than the average man. Both see two 
grim facts that stand upon the threshold of society — 
first, the deplorable imperfections in human character; 
second, the impossibility of averting the consequences 
of those imperfections. That many women are in- 
competent to do the work they undertake, is quite as 
apparent as that many men are in a similar dilemma: 
likewise, that the remedy for this cannot be found 
in church, school, or philanthropy ; and that even 
legislation, though it may enforce stated hours for 
the instruction of the community, cannot provide 
brains for the comprehension of the same. 

So long as the world exists there must be that 
inequality of power which produces the effects called 
injustice and suffering. That many men employing 
working-women are hard and grasping, turning a deaf 
ear to kindness, and in the race for riches scrupling 
little what means are used, is but too true : learning 
promptly that humane principles rarely lead to wealth, 
they decide that whoever will do the best work for 
the least wages shall receive their patronage. Proof 
is not wanting, however, that women are no less 
ready to act upon this principle than men ; and the 
incredulous might, possibly, gain some light upon 
this subject by glancing at the manner in which they 
conduct their immediate household expenses or deal 
with the working-people they employ. If they evince 
a disposition to curtail comfort for the sake of show, 
or under-pay those they employ, we may be quite 



268 MAN AND WOMAN. 

sure they would act upon precisely the same principle 
if at the head of a business establishment or public 
department. Public life is but private life on a large 
scale, and the same spirit dominates both. Only 
when woman convinces the world that entire justice 
to all within her sphere is her chief aim, will her plea 
of moral superiority be admitted. 

Is it heresy to assert that woman's organization 
necessitates a shrinking from the public gaze, a repug- 
nance to the concentration demanded by business, and 
a dread of exposure and hardship ? That feminine 
occupations, as usually understood, are more favorable 
to her health, beauty, and equanimity of mind than 
scientific or literary pursuits ? That domestic service 
is more conducive to her general well-being than a 
trade, and that worthily performing such service she 
is just as deserving of respect as when standing be- 
hind a counter or sitting in an office ? There are 
those who try to make us think so, but in refutation 
of the charge we need only glance at woman's most 
striking characteristics. 

When not warped by a false system of education, 
publicity, tumult, and disputation are wholly foreign 
to her, and she recoils instinctively from any kind of 
labor or employment which clashes with her sense of 
fitness and propriety. 

Woman's character in the home affects the whole 
community quite as powerfully as if she cast her vote 
or shared public duties. And whether gifted with 
judgment, eloquence, or administrative ability, one 
and all may find abundant scope within that precinct. 

That public recognition is not essential to power, 
many a noble woman has demonstrated through hus- 



MAN AND WOMAN. 269 

band, son, brother, relative, or friend : and the more 
closely such power is veiled with grace, refinement, 
and tact, the more certain is its end. 

The Ideal Woman may be found in any age, nation, 
or class, and is recognized by the firmness with which 
she holds her own cherished convictions, and the 
faithfulness manifested in embodying them in her life. 

Each woman, whether of high or low degree, bears 
that within her being which conscientiously used 
wields an influence for good over thousands. What 
form it shall assume depends first upon natural en- 
dowment, then upon culture, and finally upon applica- 
tion of the same to a definite object. After all facts 
and observations bearing upon this question have 
been duly pondered, the umpire to be chosen is na- 
ture : there can be no higher appeal than this, and 
any inferior one will work mischief. 

At times, indeed, her voice may be drowned by the 
clangor of self-will, false pride, or weak judgment; 
but when fairly heard, none can remain in doubt as to 
her decision. 

In every woman's heart lies the emphatic denial of 
the practicability of making any out-door pursuit her 
preference. Those who have devoted earnest study 
and impartial investigation to the subject, unanimously 
concur in one opinion, namely, that from a marvellously 
early period girls turn their most serious thoughts in 
the direction of matrimony, and, under ordinary cir- 
cumstances, regard all else with indifference. Even 
when a trade or a situation in a business-house be- 
comes a necessity, it is never entered upon with any 
idea of permanence : acquiescence with cheerfulness 
or resignation, can never be mistaken for the hearty 



270 



MAN AND WOMAN. 



interest in work which arises from choice or convic- 
tion. 

Pre-eminently domestic in tastes and in feelings, 
seeing in the actual or imaginary home the acme of 
hope and the legitimate field of activity, woman seeks 
happiness neither in wealth nor in fame, but in the full 
employment of the affections. 

Here she is natural and at ease, and even the most 
gifted women have acknowledged, by word and act, 
that no worldly prizes can indemnify them for the 
absence of domestic ties. 

Save for pecuniary exigency or personal misfor- 
tunes, probably, neither Art nor Literature would be 
represented by woman. From her highly-sensitive 
organization and tendency to vivid impressions, she 
cannot without injury undertake any protracted men- 
tal labor. Her brain, no less susceptible to culture 
than man's, is yet widely different in all its functions. 
Of wonderful quickness and penetration, exceeding 
delicacy of apprehension, and rare sympathetic power, 
it would seem as if nature had set her stamp here as 
clearly as upon form or feature. 

With reference to her power in the nation, the fol- 
lowing anecdote attributed to Themistocles may serve 
to illustrate a truth practically known in many a modern 
household : " His son being master of his mother, 
and by her means of himself, he observed, laughing: 
'This child is greater than any man in Greece; for 
the Athenians command the Greeks, I command the 
Athenians, his mother commands me, and he com- 
mands his mother.' " Here, undoubtedly, is woman's 
undisputed kingdom — in the heart — and only when 
perverted by luxury or superficial education can she 



MAN AND WOMAN. 2 J\ 

be induced to regard her prerogatives with levity or 
disdain. 

Why, under any circumstances, should she wish to 
compete with man? 

Is there a more painful social anomaly than an 
effeminate man or a masculine woman ? 

No man feels aggrieved when assured by competent 
judges — women themselves — that under no course of 
instruction could he ever rank with woman as nurse, 
seamstress, or housekeeper. On the contrary, he will- 
ingly enough accedes to her superiority in these 
departments, and while enjoying the results, rests 
tranquil in the belief that division of labor is the 
surest means of comfort for all. Why then should 
any woman feel aggrieved when assured by men that 
she can never make a good soldier, sailor, or car- 
penter? In failing to avail herself of the light of in- 
tuition which lifts her far above discussion or doubt, 
woman commits her gravest error. Thus guided, 
there could be no mistaken application of energy, no 
clamoring for things beyond her reach, no angry de- 
nunciation of man's short-comings, while in her own 
character lies so much unused or neglected. Leaving 
the extremes of wealth and poverty, and turning to 
the great middle class which represents the sterling 
virtues and prevalent vices of our country, does it not 
become painfully apparent that women manifest far 
less earnestness in their household duties than men 
manifest in their business? For, had women a just 
appreciation of the importance of their position, there 
would be no striving to escape from it, no puerile 
complaints about the petty details and the ever- 
recurring annoyances of the household. 



272 



MAN AND WOMAN. 



What is life to the merchant, the man of science, or 
earnest man in any department of labor, but a slow, 
almost imperceptible advance towards a desired end ? 
And if man's work be not always pleasant and con- 
genial to personal tastes, what right has woman to 
expect hers to be more so ? 

In her relations to home and society a woman is 
just as much subject to criticism as a man; and if her 
duties be neglected, she is on the same moral level with 
him who neglects his business or profession. More- 
over, if in her department there be ignorance, indo- 
lence, or improvidence, the skill and industry of her 
partner are of little avail. 

Whatever the actual endowments of woman, she 
will never lose the respect and protection of man so 
long as she remains true to her intuitions and per- 
ceptions : and in proportion to faithfulness here will 
she acquire those qualities which form the special 
adornment of her sex, and which always elicit from 
man the best fruits of chivalry. If worthy of affection, 
she usually receives it in full measure; when complaint 
is made of a want of due attention in the domestic 
or social circle, a cause will probably be found in her 
own coldness or selfishness, which would exact homage 
from others and yet give nothing in return. Character 
has as wide an arena for action in woman's sphere as 
in man's, each woman, apart from her accidental po- 
sition as daughter, wife, or mother, having countless 
opportunities for manifesting her individuality. 

Has not woman in all ages been the guiding spirit, 
the inspirer, the comforter of man ? Both were placed 
in the world to govern it, and surely woman has an 
equal share of power : and since neither can perform 



MAN AND WOMAN. 



273 



the duties of the other, and neither dispense with the 
other, why should there be any dispute ? 

Let man reign a king, and a right royal one, in his 
sphere, while woman reigns a queen, a truly womanly 
one, in hers. The more woman reasons upon the 
subject, the more earnest must be her conviction. that 
only in her true position can she work well ; as soon 
as she steps out of that and attempts to cope with 
men, whether in business, science, or politics, she fails 
to accomplish her end, and to a certain extent forfeits 
her rights of womanhood. Not that she should be 
ignorant of those matters: on the contrary, she should 
ever be on the alert to acquire knowledge and culti- 
vate her reasoning power. But no mortal can lead 
two distinct lives, — man's and woman's; and if due 
respect, courtesy, and chivalry on the one side be 
desired, there must be correspondent gentleness, for- 
bearance, and loveliness on the other. 

Did human faithfulness to instinct and reason per- 
mit nature's designs to be carried out, every man and 
every woman would have a "home" in the completest 
sense of the word, and find in it satisfactory employ- 
ment for thought, sentiment, and activity. But, owing 
mainly to human unfaithfulness to instinct and reason, 
thousands of men and women have no " home," no 
place of refuge after toil, no field for the healthful ex- 
ercise of domestic attachments. Concerning the causes 
of this condition of things many and opposite opinions 
are freely given. Unhappily for our country and our- 
selves — especially for our women — a true comprehen- 
sion of the value of family-life is far from being general 
even among the intelligent classes. An erroneous 
estimate of happiness is encouraged under the spe- 

24 



274 MAN AND WOMAN. 

clous names of position, rank, and appearances ; so 
that men and women often neglect opportunities of 
making a "home" not because they could not honor 
and love the individual willing to make or share it, but 
because they hope to " do better" in a worldly sense. 
Consequently, many young men spend annually upon 
themselves — without securing the comfort they seek — 
what would easily support a family; and many young 
women drag out annually a miserable existence in the 
too often vain attempt to earn a living. 

In observing the principles which are at the founda- 
tion of life here in America, it would seem as if waste 
were one of the most striking blemishes of social life. 
Among all classes, in all places, and in all modes, 
the lamentable fact is demonstrated. Whether poor, 
rich, grave, or gay, every one directly or indirectly 
participates in the work : and it is amazing to witness 
the indifference or complacency with which even those 
regarded as " sensible" throw away wealth, talent, 
wisdom, or opportunity. At times, indeed, it seems 
as if the whole community were abandoning itself 
with unbridled eagerness to the squandering of every 
thing most worthy and precious. So wide-spread and 
so destructive is the evil that any attempt at checking 
its course appears utterly hopeless. Nevertheless, in 
the face of an epidemic, better have sanitary meas- 
ures late than not at all. Thousands will be swept 
off, but eventually the labors of the wise and philan- 
thropic will bear fruit, and the benefits of the cleansing 
process accrue to many other thousands. 

Evil may be either seen or unseen: both kinds 
must be encountered, and both present special diffi- 
culties. 



MAN AND WOMAN. 



75 



In the question of waste, for instance, that which 
is perceived, acknowledged, — deplored, it may be, — 
never lacks recruits. Men and women of all ages 
swell the throng, move on and on, gazing, wondering, 
some doubtless greatly annoyed by discomfort, but 
lacking resolution to extricate themselves. 

Days, months, years pass, and although realizing 
painfully upon what spurious things time and strength 
are being expended, they are unable to break the spell 
which holds them passive. 

In the unseen, where from deficiency in mental 
force or fitting culture this scourge has appeared, the 
knife of reform must go still deeper. 

In the first case the mine is already opened, and 
while obstructions are numerous, labor and energy 
indispensable, yet the end is in a manner visible. In 
the second case the mine is closed, and however reli- 
able the assurance given of the wealth beneath, few 
people are sanguine enough to favor the enterprise. 

Seen or unseen, waste is one of those social diffi- 
culties the solution of which is of equal importance to 
both man and woman. In their hands is placed the 
ability to plant, watch, gather in, and distribute the 
forces which most effectually regulate public and 
private economy; in their characters is the strength 
sufficient to make itself felt in all institutions, educa- 
tional or religious, in all manners and customs. 

Endless are the ways opened, unlimited the means 
offered, by which this combined human force may help 
to answer this deeply-interesting question. 

Economy, as commonly applied, merely to financial 
affairs, is but a superficial glance at a many-sided 
structure; for, in thought, in time, and in strength, 



276 MAN AND WOMAN. 

waste often makes a havoc far more serious in con- 
sequences than in the first case. 

In the mind, for example, with what recklessness 
the youth of both sexes are allowed to squander from 
their earliest years ! Through a fatality which has its 
root in error, their noblest faculties are-dissipated upon 
countless worthless subjects which have no higher aim 
than the amusement of an hour. And the mischievous 
results of such dissipation are incalculable in extent; 
for, whether wisely or foolishly directed, thought is 
ever the same subtile, searching power, drawing up 
or dragging down all who come within its range. 
And in regard to time; who, to see the extraordinary 
ways in which this commodity is lavished, would 
suppose that either man or woman had any concep- 
tion of its value or uses! Judging from these ways, 
we might suppose that the years allotted to mankind 
were counted by hundreds rather than by scores. 
Otherwise, by what argument of fashion could a 
woman be persuaded to spend precious days and 
weeks upon the ornamentation of a garment which 
makes it neither more comfortable nor more pleasing 
to the eye? Or, through what fallacy could a man 
be drawn into a career for which he has neither in- 
clination nor ability and wherein he becomes a mere 
tool for the ambition or cupidity of others ? 

Lastly, when applied to strength : we are continually 
reminded by daily-recurring facts that man and woman 
are prone to spend the very best of themselves upon 
the most barren projects, while odd moments and 
wearied bodies are reserved for the noblest pursuits. 
" It is astonishing as well as sad," says Thoreau, " how 
many trivial affairs even the wisest man thinks he must 



MAN AND WOMAN. 277 

attend to in a day; how singular an affair he thinks 
he must omit." 



In whatever part of the world or under whatsoever 
circumstances men and women live, their interests are 
one and the same. Dependent upon one another for 
comfort, progress, and happiness, they cannot without 
irreparable injury neglect those points of training 
which inculcate this mutual dependence. As regards 
moral and intellectual greatness — the only kind worthy 
of human ambition — each sex must look to its own 
heaven-given powers for the elements wherewith to 
work out its ideal of life, although the animating 
principle of such aspiration remains ever the same 
for both. 

Where the true spirit of development is infused 
into each sex, there is no question of commanding 
or obeying, no harsh censorship or weak cringing, no 
discordant clamor of superiority and inferiority. 

Man reverences and loves woman, and — in propor- 
tion to education and morality — evinces those senti- 
ments in word and deed throughout life. 

Woman respects and loves man, and — save under 
abnormal conditions — finds her highest happiness in 
following his counsel and ministering to his well-being. 
In their appreciation of each other lie the germs of 
all romance, poetry, and virtue, as well as of those 
countless blessings and joys which find fittest expres- 
sion in our dear old English word "home." Here 
may be found the supreme felicity men and women 
dream of in their highest moments of revery ! Here 
are the rest, the peace, the perfect understanding, 
the inalienable confidence, the untiring devotion, the 

24* 



2 ;8 MAN AND WOMAN. 

mutual support, the satisfying rewards of toil ! And 
such views of " home" are not theoretical, Utopian, 
chimerical, unrealizable, but founded upon Nature her- 
self, who is all truth, all reality ! A happy home by 
no means implies human perfection, but an earnest 
striving after those attainments of head and heart 
which individual endowment and circumstances render 
practicable. Neither does it imply an absence of 
human faults, foibles, and passions which serve their 
purpose of repressing spiritual pride, arrogance, and 
intolerance. But the essentials demanded for such a 
home are a choosing of its inmates according to 
natural inclination and character, an absence of wanton 
indulgence and vicious habits, and a profound convic- 
tion that the slightest moral flaw permitted to rest 
upon the sacred threshold may overshadow and ulti- 
mately destroy both the temple and its worshippers. 



VIII. 

ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 



We may blind ourselves to it if we like, but the hatreds and disgusts 
that are behind friendship, relationship, service, and indeed proximity 
of all kinds, is one of the darkest spots upon earth. — Helps. 

We learn to curb our will and keep our overt actions within the 
bounds of humanity, long before we can subdue our sentiments and 
imaginations to the same mild tone. We give up the external demon- 
stration, the bi-iite violence, but cannot part with the essence or prin- 
ciple of hostility. — Hazlitt. 



Nothing is more curious than our instinctive im- 
pressions concerning people. Towards some, without 
any definable cause, we feel instantly kindly disposed, 
desirous of assuming over them a sort of tacit pro- 
tection. Towards others, with no better reason, we 
are harshly disposed, and feel ruffled and annoyed by 
their mere presence. If after a first interview with a 
stranger we say, I like him : we may be sure there 
is something in his character which assimilates with 
our own. With this qualification, it matters not what 
the age, nationality, and circumstances are, the main 
and pleasure-giving point being : I am at ease with my 
companion, and. he is the same with me; I can talk 
and be understood, or I can be silent and not be 

deemed stupid ; I feel no timidity, no uneasiness, no 

279 



2 8o ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 

desire to escape from his presence, and — whether wise 
or foolish — am willing to appear as I am. 

If after the first interview with another we say, I 
do not like him: it is equivalent to the mental verdict, 
I shall never like him. If not brought into close con- 
tact, we give the matter little thought; but if obliged 
to associate with him, his personality hardens our 
sensibilities, dulls our brain, or inflames our passions. 
Rather than meet one towards whom we stand in this 
antagonistic relation, we would willingly choose a 
day's hard toil. In early life, when effects are seen 
and felt without understanding causes, nature's warn- 
ings of this kind are frequently attributed to ill tem- 
per, prejudice, or injustice towards others. In later 
years, when reason and observation have drilled us 
into some sort of knowledge, we learn to make a broad 
distinction between antipathy and prejudice. 

The latter causes a judging of character from hearsay 
or superficial examination; the former arises directly 
from nature, and, far from being reprehensible, is evi- 
dently a means of defence against our social enemies. 

If we possess firmness and self-reliance, we give 
immediate support to antipathy, and where coarseness 
or deceit is detected accept the information without 
hesitation or doubt. But if timid and self-distrustful, 
we give suGh intuitions no fair play and overrule them 
by reason or unwise charity ; and this often accounts 
for the uncongenial and unsuitable companions we 
admit, if not to confidence, yet to our time and "our 
homes. 

Courtesy towards all men is a tribute rightfully 
claimed by the exigencies of domestic and social life: 
this being given, we are under no further obligation as 



ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 281 

regards intercourse with the people around us, unless 
prompted thereto by affinity or humane feelings. 

But neither courtesy nor humanity necessitates fel- 
lowship. Under what humane law indeed should we 
feel obliged to conciliate those who regard us as odd, 
unsocial, or visionary, and who, we but too well know, 
can never be any thing to us? The best of ourselves 
— our thoughts, feelings, and convictions — ought not 
to be thrown away : if w r e weakly commit the folly, 
we expose ourselves to painful misconstruction from 
others and to the certain loss of self-respect. He who 
tries to please everybody verifies the paradox that 
there is no more certain way of doing little than to 
undertake too much. 

Meeting a new person is an incident in itself agree- 
able and suggestive of new ideas. Possibly we have 
long known him by name or reputation, but we de- 
sire the testimony of our own mind, and if we are 
wise will permit its judgment to decide as to the place 
the new applicant for our interest is henceforth to hold 
in our esteem or affection. In many instances a single 
glance at a countenance may reveal to us antagonism, 
and yet we may, partly through curiosity or expe- 
diency, partly through a dogged determination to be 
just at whatever cost, compel ourselves to continue 
an intercourse absolutely painful in its uncongeniality. 
In this matter, however, intuition should have full 
scope and under no possible pretext should its stand- 
ard be lowered. Better far to appear cold, strange, 
and unlovable — although to a sensitive ear these epi- 
thets are painfully harsh — than to stoop to association 
with inferior spirits, through moral cowardice. Some 
people — women more frequently than men — are not 



282 ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 

self-controlled in manner and conversation; so that in 
certain cases a reserve suggested by Nature herself 
may be forfeited by giving, in an unguarded moment, 
the word or the smile which commits them to an 
undesired intimacy. Through this breach may enter 
officiousness and intrusion, those two inflictions which 
more than any others are likely to breed misanthropy 
in the human soul. In the domain of self — one which 
neither law nor lawlessness can take from -us — each 
person who appears should occupy his special place, 
and any relaxing of discipline in the order of occupa- 
tion must result in discomfiture on both sides. Neither 
can the standard of admission be too high, for if not 
with fitting companions we are better alone. When 
we perceive our mind becoming impaired and our sen- 
sibilities dulled by contact with certain acquaintances, 
we are not only justified in avoiding their society, but 
under a moral obligation so to act. There need be no 
fault found, no unkindness felt or expressed, but sim- 
ply an acceptance of a psychological fact. But how- 
ever earnestly we may endeavor to avoid association 
with those who would lower our modes of thought, 
we are compelled by virtue of our humanity to have 
daily rencounters with these antagonistic natures. 

To assert that reason will enable us to overcome 
the aversion caused by an affected manner, a vicious 
temper, or a disagreeable habit, is as futile as to pre- 
tend that reason can render us insensible to changes 
in the atmosphere. 

In vain do we deride in ourselves what seems an 
unjustifiable fastidiousness! Battle against it as we 
may, the aversion remains, and makes itself felt every 
time the antagonism is presented. 



ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 283 

The same law applies to children as well as to grown 
people: indeed, very slight observation proves that 
they are antagonistic or the reverse, not only to one 
another but also to their elders. Favoritism in the 
family-circle or in the school is simply a synonym of 
congeniality. No human power, not even Christianity, 
can make us love children who are antagonistic to us, 
although a principle of justice induces us to treat them 
kindly and self-control enables us to conceal our dislike 
to their presence. True, we are not accountable for 
the effect produced, nor are they for producing it; but 
it would be sheer folly to attempt to deny a fact so ap- 
parent. Although, as Hawthorne says, "it contributes 
greatly towards a man's moral and intellectual health 
to be brought into habits of companionship with indi- 
viduals unlike himself, who care little for his pursuits 
and whose sphere and abilities he must go out of him- 
self to appreciate," we are nevertheless, during this 
process of being benefited, in a condition of unmiti- 
gated discomfort — one we would escape from if we 
could. 

There is a marked difference between the people 
who excite in us a positive antagonism and those 
who excite in us no feeling whatever. In the main, 
people interest us in proportion to their struggles, 
misfortunes, or errors; whereas those who live easy, 
comfortable lives, knowing no greater excitement 
than the effort required to seek or purchase their 
pleasures, awaken in us only that languid curiosity 
which inquires for the name, title, profession, and 
means. In the first instance it is the soul of the in- 
dividual which attracts us ; in the second it is merely 
the outer covering. 



284 ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 

In travelling, or in a concourse of people anywhere, 
we see hundreds pass to and fro without awaken- 
ing in us the slightest feeling. We may even accuse 
ourselves of callousness, almost of inhumanity, when 
lo, there appears one who instantaneously rivets our 
attention and commands our thoughts. Apparently^ 
there is no reason why we should study this one with 
more earnestness than another ; but the fact that we 
do is undeniable, unchangeable. Involuntarily, we 
give him a warm mental greeting and are sure that, 
conditions favoring, we should become his friend. 

Every human face has a story to tell, although our 
own pressing affairs give us no time to listen unless 
the incidents have a psychological attraction for us. 
In such a case they hold us spell-bound, breathless, 
and, like a child hearing a fairy-tale, we could listen 
for ever, and for ever fancy much untold. 

A face may tell us that the soul behind it loves high 
and earnest things, that it is ardent, buoyant, expect- 
ing every thing, hoping, demanding every thing ; in its 
youthful manly beauty, it looks as if it might almost 
defy fate. 

Some years later, this same face may again cross 
our path. The same, and yet how different! Between 
then and now there seems a whole history intervening. 
Possibly vigorous manhood is still there, passion's fires 
not yet spent ; but there is a thoughtful, subdued, sad- 
dened look which tells of opportunities lost, plans 
abandoned, hopes crushed ; with maturity have come 
storms, trials, and disappointments. The quality of 
the soul has been tested and — with joy we hear it — 
found genuine; although in the same breath we hear 
that peace and rest have not yet ensued, and that 



ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 285 

wrestlings between material and spiritual forces are 
still frequent and fierce. 

A brown, hard, weather-beaten face may be so full 
of goodness as to awaken instant and entire confidence 
in the beholder : or one bearing every indication of 
culture and refinement may be so strongly marked 
with cunning or passion that we shrink from it with 
repugnance. Nature gives us our features, but we 
stamp them with the cheerfulness proceeding from 
nobleness of purpose or the discontent arising from 
unredeemed promises. 

" Notre visage est une masque," says Victor Hugo. 
" Le vrai homme c'est ce qui est sous l'homme. L'er- 
reur commune c'est de prendre l'etre exterieur pour 
l'etre reel." 

True — in one sense. Superficially considered, fea- 
tures do not give any definite information regarding 
character : but studiously observed, they are very far 
from being a mask. On the contrary, "le vrai homme" 
is set forth in every line and every shade of expression 
which past years have traced. The faculty of reading 
the human countenance — one partly intuitive, partly 
acquired — conduces more than any other towards 
power over men. One possessing it would much 
more confidently trust his deductions from this source, 
than any information vouchsafed by the individual 
himself or his friends. 

Another powerful agent in creating antagonism or 
sympathy for the people around us is manner. Sus- 
ceptibility to this indescribable something which speaks 
so eloquently through the walk, the repose, the speech, 
the work, and the amusements of men, depends upon 
our organization and culture. Many sensible, scien- 

25 



286 ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 

tific, good, or intelligent people are found who mani- 
fest utter indifference to the esthetics of language, 
conduct, or dress ; but inquiry invariably proves that 
there is a radical defect in such characters which pre- 
vents the appreciation of beauty and harmony. No 
reproach can be attached to a man because he has no 
ear for music, but no doubt exists that he is debarred 
from that which affords delight to thousands. So with 
refinement of manner : there can be no censure for 
those who do not possess it, but at the same time we 
know they never can be on an equal footing with 
those who do. 

Many virtues and various degrees of intellect or 
mechanical skill have claims upon our respect or 
admiration ; this given, no more can be required of 
us. We cannot force ourselves to grant social equality 
in cases where our sensibilities are jarred upon by 
ignorance, vulgarity, or ill-breeding. As man to man, 
or woman to woman, we cannot yield companionship 
unless the best within ourselves meets its counterpart. 
Better far in solitude than to be irritated and made 
uncomfortable by another. 

Those who are peculiarly susceptible to manner see 
so close a tie between motive and action that they 
involuntarily look to a man's way of doing things to 
find out the man himself. Rudeness or want of deli- 
cacy in our social inferiors can be tolerated through 
remembering their disadvantages of education, but 
from those with whom we daily associate we have a 
right to expect consideration and refinement equal to 
our own. If these be wanting, the deficiencies pierce 
us like so many thorns, rendering us unfit for our own 
part. One coarse, ill-bred member in a family is a per- 



ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 287 

petual discord, a never-ending source of discomfort and 
mental feud, an ill utterly incurable. By whatever name 
we call that gentle spirit which is personified in think- 
ing of and feeling for others, and which in all times has 
been found in the noblest of human kind, we cannot 
help believing it inborn. Nevertheless, manner is to 
a certain extent possible of acquirement, and as such 
just as well worth study as language, music, science, 
or any of the arts which affect mankind. Whatever 
our own endowments or idiosyncrasies, we cannot 
escape the all-pervading influence of one spirit upon 
another. All men, high and low, good and bad, 
brilliant and dull, sensual and spiritual, prosaic and 
imaginative, are bound together by the mysterious but 
indissoluble bonds of humanity. 

Whether consciously or not, with the consent of 
our will or against it, we are acted upon, agreeably 
or disagreeably, by every being with whom we come 
in contact; and however far apart our ways in life, or 
however dissimilar our work, this invisible power will 
make itself felt. 

Those who in the past have thus acted upon us are 
wholly ineradicable from our existence ; and while the 
agreeable influence is remembered with deep delight, 
the other causes an irrepressible loathing. 

The first surrounded us like a balmy atmosphere, 
penetrating every fibre of our being and making us 
long to shake off every ignoble shackle, whil^ in- 
spiring gratitude for the inestimable boon of faith 
in a fellow-creature. 

The second oppressed us like a noxious gas, pre- 
venting our natural capability from asserting itself, and 
causing a distaste for human companionship, because 



288 ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 

our companions excited evil tendencies and painful 
suspicions as to the beneficence of Nature. 

Practical people are sometimes heard ridiculing 
certain portions of books where thoughts, motives, 
and workings of the mind are analyzed. Thoughts 
unspoken, they think, must be thoughts unknown. 
But sympathetic people know how similar are the 
processes which form the discipline of the soul, and 
can read their fellow-creatures with as much certainty 
as if the facts stood out in actual characters. 

In the reading of human character more depends 
upon the brain than upon the eye. Consequently, 
upon seeing a person for the first time, an impression 
is made wholly disconnected from the color of eye 
and hair or cut of feature, and after seeing this person 
frequently an indefinite number of these impressions 
accumulate. 

A man, for instance, in whom intellect without hu- 
manity exists, inspires a sentiment of mingled respect 
and dread. A child would shrink, without knowing 
why, from such a character, while a mature person 
would have the same shrinking modified by knowl- 
edge. In truth, intellect without humanity must always 
stamp the countenance with mistrust. The eye ever 
bent upon penetrating the mysteries of physical science 
and yet incapable of seeing any beauty or marvel in 
humanity, cannot acquire that attractive light which 
diffuses kindliness. The brow, constantly habituated 
to narrow, contemptuous contemplation of man and 
woman, grows into a contraction unpleasant to behold; 
and in looking at it the contraction seems to pass over 
to us, instantly stifling any generous impulse or be- 
nevolent thought which previously existed. 



ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 



289 



Hard and cold is the magnetic influence from such 
a nature. Those inferior to him in intellectual ability 
he holds in unqualified contempt; those equal to him 
he respects, but only in proportion to their subservience 
to his ideas and interest in his pursuits. Abrupt even 
to those whom he respects, to inferiors his manners 
are so imperious as to verge on insolence; and orders 
given to those under him are in a tone calculated 
to rouse the blood, making the subordinate feel per- 
sonally injured and aggrieved. If savages, they would 
probably seize the first opportunity that offered to 
revenge themselves, either by poison or by open 
violence, for the implied contempt. For all depart- 
ments of knowledge outside his own such a man 
usually expresses indifference or open dislike. 

There is something altogether peculiar in the feel- 
ing with which we regard a man of manifest intellectual 
superiority and yet devoid of those moral and affec- 
tional qualities which produce sentiment and reverence 
for human nature. 

Wholly deficient in tenderness and charity, he takes 
no interest whatever in the welfare of the community, 
and none even in those closely related by social ties, 
save that necessary for pecuniary or intellectual sup- 
port. Yet he may be wholly unconscious of this flaw in 
his organization, and evince in manner and conversation 
so great a self-complacency that we involuntarily re- 
lease him from all responsibility, and should no more 
expect benevolence from him than courtesy from a 
boor. However repugnant to our own sense of fitness 
or goodness his conduct might be, it is so manifestly 
an honest acting-out of his nature that there would be 
no attempt on our part to pass judgment upon him. 

25* 



290 ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 

Manner is invariably the reflection of the moral 
nature : hence the striking varieties in cultivated no 
less than in rude classes of society. 

Society, the " social instrument," affects us more 
powerfully than either virtue or ability. What mis- 
chief may it not cause, what pain not inflict, this 
"instrument," when of defective metal, ill made, and 
unskilfully handled ! 

To form " good" society it might be supposed that 
the quality of the men and women composing it would 
be the great essential. But, singularly enough, the 
world seems to think divers external accessories, such 
as genealogy, gold, costly raiment, and grand houses, 
far more important considerations, and insists upon 
judging the merits and demerits of applicants accord- 
ingly. And inasmuch as many of the people best 
endowed with brains and sensibilities are often found 
wanting in the above-named accessories, society must 
needs do without them. 

"Visiting" and "receiving," if understood as afford- 
ing us the means of associating with people of char- 
acter, are indeed suggestive and inspiriting words. But 
what do these two words represent to the average 
man and woman in our own country? Is the fact 
they represent — society — a recreation for wearied 
bodies and souls, or is it something productive of 
more fatigue and discomfort than satisfaction ? 

Throw several hundreds of men and women into 
the most splendid of rooms, with lights, music, and 
fitting banquet, and how many, when the " gayety" is 
over, can truly say they have been pleased, refreshed, 
or benefited ? 

Chamfort defined his friends thus : " II y a mes amis 



ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 29 1 

qui m'aiment, mes amis qui ne se soucient pas du tout 
de moi, et mes amis qui me detestent;" and in a large 
assemblage of people anywhere probably the same 
definition might be made by each person. Especially 
is it difficult to explain how the senseless custom of 
" calling," as practised by women, ever could have 
taken root in American soil. Assuming that women 
similarly educated and connected by various social 
ties entertain kindly feelings for one another, and in 
time of need are ready to proffer assistance or counsel, 
this in no way renders it essential that at stated periods 
there should be a careful selection of finery and a 
campaign of " calls" entered upon. Why should 
women, whether queens or simply subjects of society, 
be called away from their ordinary morning avocations 
for the purpose of a mutual interchange of looks, 
platitudes, and suppressed yawns ? Each woman 
knows it is a sham, and yet each voluntarily en- 
courages it. Frequently it happens that an apology 
is considered necessary for the supposed fault of 
having allowed too long an interval to elapse before 
submitting to the ceremonial. At such times can any 
woman of average intelligence repress a feeling of 
contempt at the falseness of the position and the 
insincerity of the remarks ? Usually the basis of 
conversation during these "calls" consists of inquiries 
— general and particular — about the family, in which 
inquiries no one, old or young, man, woman, or child, 
is forgotten; and if any thing like illness or misfortune 
permits expansion of the subject, the details are dwelt 
upon with strange interest. 

Are then women's minds so vacant that these per- 
sonal details of their acquaintances prove a pleasing 



292 



ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 



source of excitement? Or is it merely through cus- 
tom or courtesy that such questions are asked and 
answered ? Many amiable and intelligent women ac- 
knowledge that these last-named reasons fully account 
for what is to them a most disagreeable phase of so- 
ciety. But how shall we escape ? they ask. How do 
what we think just and sensible, and yet retain our 
position ? To which may be replied : There are 
women to be found so earnestly engaged in useful oc- 
cupations that they can never make or return "calls," 
and yet the world by no means loses its respect for 
them. Home duties, philanthropic works, art, music, 
or science, should so absorb every earnest woman 
that even a single hour of flippancy or insincerity 
would be an impossibility. 

Can it be doubted for an instant that if the women 
of our generation were heartily impressed with the 
utter absurdity of this and similar customs, those of 
the next would show more sense and spirit ? Loyalty 
to an idea is one of the most striking characteristics 
of woman ; whether it be love, ambition, religion, or 
fashion, all else is subservient to the idea considered 
proper to her age, position, or appearance. Conse- 
quently, however strong a disinclination she may 
evince towards certain forms of 'society, however much 
disposed to think and act in accordance with reason or 
sentiment, she is usually held in check by the domi- 
nant idea implanted in youth. Not strange then that 
when all the ingenuity and perseverance of mother 
and teachers have been taxed to impress upon the 
gentle, plastic nature of the girl the absolute necessity 
of obedience to custom, she should yield unresistingly. 
The most absurd fashion, irksome routine, profitless 



ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 293 

occupation, wearisome hospitality, or meaningless 
phrase, may come to be viewed in the light of duty 
if advocated by venerated lips. And when once the 
young girl's mind has been well drilled by such a 
system, she may be launched into society with but 
little fear as to results. 

Innovation seldom' attacks one of this stamp, a fact 
which ought to bring infinite encouragement to those 
interested in education. Fortified by all the instruc- 
tions of past years, she will move along thoughtlessly 
and easily on the beaten track, stopping occasionally, 
it may be, for a hasty glance at some special beauty of 
earth or sky, but never dreaming of either thorough 
examination or natural enjoyment. 

If, as is sometimes admitted, " calling" is a mere 
form, the skeleton of what was once " visiting," why 
should such pains be taken to deck it out like a living 
reality ? Why, if we do not want to see people, should 
we go to their houses and pretend that we do ? Why, 
if we do want to see them, should we go just when 
we know they are either out or engaged ? 

When women meet in private or in public, why not 
consent to talk sensibly and act courteously without 
thinking it necessary to " visit," unless a similarity of 
tastes or a mutual liking make it probable that such 
visits will prove a source of pleasure? Fashion, how- 
ever, is always antagonistic to natural feeling and 
reasonable ideas, and any one who deliberately resists 
it becomes an object of suspicion. If on this point 
a woman presume to differ from her companions, she 
may possibly differ on other points, and it would be a 
dangerous precedent, fashion thinks, to pass unnoticed 
one such flagrant breach of established absurdity. 



294 



ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 



Society, apparently, thinks that women are specially 
fitted both by natural qualities and by training for 
prominence in the work of perpetuating etiquette ; 
that, however unable to cope with man in matters 
requiring the sterner attributes of judgment and re- 
flection, in this domain she may be permitted to 
claim superiority: and that with her quickness of 
apprehension and subtile tact she may reach a point 
of culture which will enable her with one word to 
settle social difficulties which would cost many hours 
of doubt to the more massive intellect of man. 

"Visiting" and "receiving," if practised intelligently, 
are not unimportant or useless, but a means of asso- 
ciating people who otherwise would never meet, and 
whose intercourse often proves the most delightful of 
human experiences. 

"Conversation will not corrupt us," says Emerson, 
" if we come to the assembly in our own garb and 
speech, and with the energy of health to select what 
is ours and reject what is not. Society we must have ; 
but let it be society, and not exchanging news, or 
eating from the same dish. Is it society to sit in one 
of your chairs? Society exists by chemical affinity, 
and not otherwise." Many people of genuine culture 
but extreme sensitiveness are so bewildered by the 
noise and confusion incident to a miscellaneous com- 
pany that they become wholly unlike themselves, and 
to hide their confusion take refuge in the veriest non- 
sense or in a semblance of gayety — both of which 
hypocrisies they heartily despise. The men and 
women they see and the words they hear are tedi- 
ously inane, and silence looms up before the mind's 
eye as a blessed relief. But in "society" silence is 



ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 2 g$ 

one of the unpardonable sins, and to avoid it, the 
extremes of chattering, gossiping, and prosing are 
resorted to. 

There are people who tell us that if we are ill at 
ease in society it is because of some defect in our own 
character which we might counteract by force of will: 
that if we act naturally we attract those of similar 
tastes : finally, that if we find ourselves at variance 
with society we should lose no chance of reconcilia- 
tion, and under no consideration withdraw from its 
numerous advantages. 

While acknowledging whatever of truth these argu- 
ments hold, we must leave a wide margin for difference 
in the quality of " society" presented to us, as well as 
for idiosyncrasies of temperament. That "society is 
no comfort to one not sociable," is a verity to which 
many a strong heart sincerely responds. The unlucky 
man " not sociable" who permits himself to be in- 
veigled into society-follies is liable to fall into savage 
moods the venom of which is often poured upon un- 
offending heads. Forced into a position wholly at 
variance with natural feeling and taste, and made to 
perform parts from which every instinct revolts, it 
cannot be a matter of surprise if he manifest phases of 
temper expressed by the adjectives "irascible," "cyn- 
ical," " misanthropic." Such a man seeks solitude as 
the greatest of boons not from antagonism to his fel- 
low-creatures, but simply from the impossibility of 
realizing his ideal of society in the institution which 
goes by that name. One of a different temperament 
may have so strong a desire for social intercourse, that 
he consents to associate with very inferior people, 
not because they meet his needs, but because it must 



296 ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 

be this or nothing. The society which will meet the 
needs of thinking people must be one which en- 
courages reunions of congenial minds without restraint, 
formality, or fatigue : of this kind we cannot have 
too much. But the common fallacy of trying to ex- 
tract benefit or relaxation from a senseless round of 
formalities exhausts patience, and creates disgust for 
so-called social life. 

The people now living who hold places in our hearts 
and minds, may or may not be personally known to 
us ; probably those who hold the best places have 
been seen only mentally. To know intimately one 
human being who approaches our conception of noble 
character gives greater joy than millions of treasure, 
or countless honors : to know one human being 
through his works yields a stronger sense of reality 
as regards the satisfaction of the soul, than seeing the 
thousands who pass and repass us daily. No man 
has ever lived long in absolute retirement without 
longing with a touching intensity for sights and 
sounds representing humanity. 

A recluse may accomplish a certain given end, bring 
forth intellectual power, reconcile repentance with 
transgression, or present a noble example of resigna- 
tion. He cannot, however, give us the type of true 
manhood such as human judgment approves, and 
which under social auspices from time to time 
awakens universal admiration. Under any circum- 
stances, isolation from our kind becomes supportable 
only through activity of imagination or through books, 
either of which may be considered an equivalent for 
companionship. When a man seems to prefer books 



ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 



297 



to society it is because he finds more suitable com- 
panionship in them than in the people he meets : but 
with the prospect of meeting even one person of con- 
genial tastes, his books are gladly forsaken. Has not 
many a student confessed that when he fancied him- 
self most alone he has often been startled by the 
vividness with which imagination pictures the human 
beings most dear to him in real life, past or present? 

What would education — that just leveller of all 
inequalities of birth or fortune, the talisman which 
makes utter degradation or misery almost impossible 
— be without social intercourse ? As in man's phys- 
ical structure attention not to one point only, but to 
all, insures a healthy whole, so in his spiritual struc- 
ture an immense variety of influences is requisite to 
make strength and beauty of character. The keen 
delights of solitude as experienced by many earnest 
souls, have never been overrated : but the solitude 
which proves a means of elevation must be occa- 
sional, not habitual, taken as a season of repose after 
faithful participation in the activities of life. Days of 
self-communion or absorption in another mind through 
his works should be deemed allowable only as they 
prepare us for new struggles, more energetic action, 
more absolute self-denial, nearer and more affectionate 
intercourse with those whom we are privileged to call 
friends. That hours of solitude are essential to moral 
health, the most profound students of human nature 
have uniformly asserted. Are there not times when 
the body cannot continue in its accustomed routine, 
when the palate turns from food, the eye sees nothing 
fair in nature, the foot refuses to carry its burden, 
the hand can perform none of its wonted functions? 

26 



298 ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 

But because of this temporary suspension of force 
we do not feel or declare that we can never again be 
restored to health. Thus when the soul becomes 
wearied, overtaxed, or disheartened, it should be ten- 
derly dealt with, until restored to vigor and useful- 
ness. The worlds of sense and spirit in which we 
alternately live teem with suggestions, wonders, and 
lessons, and if not utilized as fast as presented, the 
accumulation will become so great as to defy control. 

The law of mental supremacy is in society, as in 
every other human arrangement or pursuit, immu- 
table. If too weak to govern ourselves we must be 
governed by others : hence, the rulers of the world 
are those who listen to inspiration and act upon it; 
the ruled are those who through wanton negligence 
have so weakened their brain-power that its guid- 
ance can no longer be trusted, and they are forced to 
follow that of others. From this point of view it 
seems clear that if society is to be able, influential, 
and agreeable, the people composing it must needs 
have varied mental accomplishments. 

A distinguished French philosopher says that " one 
can conceive of nothing more mean, more tame, more 
filled up with petty interests, in a word, more anti- 
poetic, than the life of a man in the United States; but 
amid the thoughts that control him, there is always 
one which is full of poetry, one like that hidden nerve 
which gives vigor to all the rest." The poetic thought 
which thus redeems this heavy charge of national 
materialism is probably the feeling of intense dissatis- 
faction which many men and many more women ex- 
perience amid their occupations and amusements. 

None — even of the most poetic — will deny that life 



ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 299 

must be sustained by daily labor and forethought ; but 
let every human being possessed of the least spark 
of intellectual fire protest against the whole of this 
brief life being condensed into a wearisome routine 
of drudgery. If, as we acknowledge, there can never 
be equality as regards houses, lands, dress, and mode 
of living, why should any of us persist in striving to 
rise above our circumstances at the cost of health, 
time, intellect, heart, and true happiness? Of all fal- 
lacies, none has such a deadening effect upon the 
national character as the commonly-accepted one of 
placing money before every other thing. Character, 
peace of mind, human progress, individual happiness, 
all these should, among noble-minded people, take 
precedence, and wealth should be sought after only 
when those have been duly considered. 

We cannot indeed ignore the vast amount of in- 
dustry, energy, perseverance, and self-sacrifice found 
in all ranks of society; but in the majority of cases 
these virtues seem to be practised without adequate 
reward. When the absolute needs of material life are 
satisfied, no man is justified in allowing the esthetic 
part of his nature to languish for want of fitting 
nourishment. We cannot tell others how they may 
be elevated or diverted ; but we know that neither 
children nor grown people are morally well when 
they give themselves no relaxation from work. The 
common excuse, want of " leisure" or " time," is by 
no means the greatest want with most of our men 
and women : that greatest want is a desire for better 
things than now occupy them body and soul, a desire 
to make character, not wealth or position, their chief 
ambition. Our " great" men should be estimated not 



3 oo ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 

by their millions, but by their amount of intellect 
and heart. In the " Memoirs" of Horace Walpole, 
it is said most truly that "men who have made them- 
selves honourably celebrated may be said to create 
their family. The greatest name ever inserted in the 
Herald's books was that of the Stratford wool-stapler. 
The Libro d'Oro of mind, if such a work existed, would 
be a book of reference of far higher interest than the 
ordinary aristocratic dictionaries, and the compiler 
might put forth the claims of noble intellect, in terms as 
lofty as are commonly devoted to the claims of noble 
blood." To become thus "honorably celebrated" is a 
legitimate ambition of every man and of every woman 
in the land, and to encourage this spirit all classes and 
all kinds of ability must be put in requisition. 

A perfect teacher would be a thoroughly cultivated 
and self-disciplined man having no other wish than 
the highest development of his pupil's faculties ; and 
the trait which most conduces to perfection of human 
character is the one termed "self-control." If we wish 
to know how much or how little of this desirable 
quality we possess, we need only examine our con- 
duct in all the minor relations of life. To have lost 
the temper and have spoken the bitter word of re- 
proach or contempt; to have been unjust towards 
others, or to have given way to invective or ill-timed 
cross-questioning ; to have said " yes" or " no" in the 
wrong place, thus causing days of waste to ourselves 
or pain to others ; to have yielded to solicitations of 
pleasure which reason condemned and conscience 
punished — such are some of the lapses from self-con- 
trol which rankle in a sensitive mind and cause it to 
sink in its self-esteem. 



ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 



301 



Self-control is the quality which more than any- 
other enables us to control others, for it commands 
respect when imposing externals or even virtue itself 
fails to command it. The self-controlled men and 
women hold the reins of government, whether in 
public or social life, and thus become the kings and 
queens of their respective spheres. We cannot don 
graces of manner or culture of mind as we would a 
garment; so that if we are to find amiable or brilliant 
qualities in society the foundation must be laid at 
home. But what do we too often see there? We see 
as heads of families those who never can be made 
either comfortable or happy themselves, and will not 
allow others to be so ; who find nothing right from 
the moment they rise to the hour of retiring, and 
whose sole object, apparently, is to find fault and 
worry. Continually looking either backwards or for- 
wards, tormenting themselves with what has been or 
with what may be, they lose entirely the best of ex- 
istence — the present. What abnormal conditions of 
body, mind, and heart must there not be to cause such 
miserable results! What more pitiable than to behold 
a man approaching old age under the firm conviction 
that nothing in the world — whether parents, education, 
friends, society, wife, children, or servants, — nothing 
in short outside himself, — has ever been right ? 

To live under the same roof with one whose mind 
is thus blurred and whose heart is thus jaundiced 
gives a vivid conception of the pains of discontent, 
and the incessant drain upon patience and forbearance 
leaves both the body and soul of the sufferer sadly en- 
feebled. The natural impulse of a healthily-organized 
individual is to allay the excitement perceptible in 

26* 



3 02 ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 

his unhappy companion either by removing the ob- 
noxious cause or by persuasive tones and conduct. 
But a yielding to this generous impulse only aggra- 
vates what it was meant to soothe. 

When a man asserts that he is the most ill-treated 
and unhappy man in the world, nothing save absolute 
acquiescence on the part of his auditor will preserve 
the latter from being considered an " unfeeling wretch," 
utterly callous to a fellow-creature's tribulation. 

Solitude has its horrors, but its worst phases are 
peace-bringing compared to the companionship of one 
of these discontented spirits. Even when in his best 
mood he doggedly makes life a drudgery. He finds 
no beauty in the sunshine, no joyousness in youth, no 
comfort in easy circumstances, no uses in adversity, 
no benefit in labor, no refreshment in intellectual com- 
munion, no peace anywhere. Mercy upon us ! cries 
the young soul who hears that wail, of melancholy, 
and beholds its charred fruit scattered in the home, 
but has not yet penetration enough to discover the, 
true cause of such misery : Is this then all of life ? Is 
there really nothing good, nothing beautiful, nothing 
restful ? 

Probably in every community or household may be 
found specimens of these difficult people, so that their 
existence must be recognized as one of the inscrutable 
mysteries of nature. Neither argument, nor rebuke, 
nor persuasion will ever reach their understanding, 
and their wretchedness, like a moral malaria, spreads 
over the neighborhood, striking down many of the_ 
fairest and best among mortals. 

So far as observation indicates the cause of the evil, 
it would seem to be a perverted individuality, one 



ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 303 

starting- from selfish desires and culminating in the 
extremes of exaction. 

Their wishes, their plans, their feelings, must upon 
all occasions and under every circumstance be re- 
ligiously venerated ; while friends and family are sup- 
posed to be wholly devoid of special characteristics 
and need have no object in life save to minister to 
their whims and tastes. Blinded by a strange self- 
infatuation to every thing except their own cares and 
failures, they trample upon the rights and feelings of 
their fellow-creatures as ruthlessly as a despot who 
knows no law but his own will and passions. 

How does a wise man then deal with any weak form 
of humanity that comes under his notice ? Does he 
reason with, rebuke, or regard with contempt the one 
who is thus deficient in the higher attributes of man? 
By no means. 

Numerous and skilfully-applied experiments have 
proved conclusively that moral ailments can rarely 
be either cured or exorcised, but that they must be 
tolerated like many other human imperfections. 

That they greatly mar the enjoyment of others, im- 
pede the natural development of intellect and feeling, 
and cast a gloom over even the most brilliant pros- 
pects, none will dispute; and yet there is no escape 
from this depressing influence save upon the neutral 
ground of tolerance. 

Have you, O reader, ever lived in the same house 
with one of those mortals possessed by the demon 
" Hurry" ? — one who from the beginning to the end 
of each day, week, and year is under the lash of that 
merciless task-master? — who is so driven by the 



304 



ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 



multiform duties and pleasures of the world that he 
finds time for none of them — that is, for performing 
the one well or enjoying the other rationally? 

A man thus possessed will confess that he takes 
even sleep, that " chief nourisher in life's feast," only 
under protest, grudgingly, and that it is always dis- 
turbed with dreams of all he has left undone the day 
before and all he means to do on the morrow. He 
may be well bred, well educated, and kindly disposed, 
and yet through this mocking fiend rendered incapable 
of giving forth either comfort or help. 

In vain will he descant upon the extreme brevity of 
the days and hours, and the universal tendency to 
loiter and idle ; wish he had a duplicate brain and 
additional hands and feet; or try to impress upon the 
younger members of the home-circle who have not 
yet reached the dismal age of retrospection that they 
have " no time to lose !" However honest his precepts, 
his manner of enforcing them is utterly at variance 
with everybody's comfort, so great an infringement 
on personal rights that escape from his over-busy at- 
mosphere is ardently prayed for. Better downright 
laziness than this ! we exclaim, as we saunter away 
with our slowest step, or sink into the easiest of arm- 
chairs as a means of recuperation. The weakest of 
weak grumblers are those who never "find time" for 
even their commonest duties, and fancy the whole 
community bent upon " interrupting" their great little 
plans. Were men's " interruptions" only from external 
sources, we should indeed possess a noble corps of 
workers ! Unfortunately, facts prove conclusively 
that incorrigible personal foibles and habits are the 
chief hindrances to progress in any profession or 



ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 305 

branch of work. Where one man of singleness of 
purpose is found, hundreds allow themselves to be 
driven or cajoled from their object by the multifarious 
forces of external life. 

It might justly be said of us as a people, that we 
seem less to be living in and appreciating the present 
than to be preparing for some vague future, — a future 
which, alas ! too often proves a chimera. For when the 
fortune is made, or the honor attained, the power of 
enjoyment has gone ; or when leisure is within reach, 
habit is found to have set an indelible stamp upon the 
character, causing the once-desired object to appear 
valueless. Neither body nor mind ever recovers from 
an early career of hurry and anxiety. 

Another character which proves antagonistic to the 
best interests of society is the "stupidly-good-natured" 
one. To have an obliging friend or neighbor is cer- 
tainly desirable, but when that trait necessitates, on 
his part, an obvious waste of that bodily and mental 
vigor without which life becomes a dreary process of 
decay, we cannot give our approval. Why indeed 
should we exclaim, Admirable good-nature ! when we 
know of a surety that its source is a mere desire for 
temporary applause, and that a faithful attendance 
upon home or business duties would have made it 
impossible ? 

No, this we cannot do and ought not to do. If we 
admire a good act or condemn a bad one we must 
have a reason for it, one which will bear scrutiny and 
examination: and the mere fact of a man's going out 
of his way or taking an immense amount of trouble to 
please us, affords not the slightest proof of genuine 
goodness in his character. 



306 



ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 



Another form of specious good-nature is the mortal 
fatigue its votaries inflict upon themselves when in 
society — that part of it expressed by the words 
"parties," "balls," and "reunions." Under this motive 
which colors all their actions, they sit through weary 
hours of intercourse with antagonistic people, talking 
and smiling with all the suavity of manner demanded 
by etiquette, while sensible of that prostration of spirit 
which wholly neutralizes whatever benefits society is 
supposed to yield. Whereas, if not " stupidly-good- 
natured," a man or a woman would remain passive 
when thrown into an oppressive social atmosphere 
from which escape was impossible. Passiveness, as a 
social quality, is one to be cultivated with assiduity ; 
for, although it cannot mitigate the pain resulting from 
antagonisms, it acts as a means of defence against rude- 
ness and folly, and prevents that strain upon mind and 
nerves which induces unfitness for other duties. Of 
what avail that an ardent, whole-souled man should 
open his mind to the first frivolous man or woman he 
meets? Whoever through inexperience or lack of 
self-control is betrayed into this folly, is punished by 
seeing the looks of misapprehension or scorn his lan- 
guage awakens. 

Another typical antagonism is the " intolerant char- 
acter," that disagreeable anomaly which brings about 
the family feuds and public calamities no earthly power 
can assuage. 

Imbued with the fallacy that nothing beyond the 
range of his own purblind intelligence can be worthy 
of attention, he judges men and things by prejudice 
rather than by reason and benevolence. Refusing to 
recognize religion unless it wear the livery of his own 



ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 



307 



sect ; ignoring merit that contrasts with his own de- 
fects ; underrating whatever clashes with his narrow 
conception of intellect, goodness, or beauty, he thinks 
it his special mission to offer his opinions and plans 
to others, and ruthlessly thrusts his spear into the 
tenderest of human sensibilities. Why should any 
being, because, forsooth, he fancies that his own 
chosen principles contain the quintessence of wisdom, 
insist upon others conforming to them ? Where each 
feels within himself a something which yields comfort, 
—--wisdom for him, even if foolishness for others, — he 
cannot but resent another's interference. 

11 In dealing with alien beliefs," says Herbert Spen- 
cer, " our endeavor must be, not simply to refrain 
from injustice of word or deed; but also to do justice 
by an open recognition of positive worth. We must 
qualify our disagreement with as much as may be of 
sympathy." Children, especially, are subjected to 
this species of torture. What showers of advice and 
reprimand fall upon their devoted heads ! 

Easy to understand why so many of these young 
souls, full of happy ignorance, cannot be joyful and 
natural in their ways when at every step they dread 
disapproval, rebuke, or open displeasure ! No marvel 
that they should avoid the stifling air of cavil and even 
resort to mischief as an antidote. When their social 
surroundings are uncongenial, rebellion is likely to en- 
sue, the demonstrations being in accordance with men- 
tal or moral force. However peculiar or unpleasant 
the characteristics of some children, they have as in- 
alienable a right to tolerance and courtesy as adults, 
and the greater their mental vigor the more vehemently 
they must resent intolerance from their elders. 



^/jtl^Z 



3 o8 ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 

One type of intolerance which is peculiarly trying 
in the family or social circle is the literary one. 

Of either sex it may be, but let us consider the 
"gentle" one, this being the most objectionable, owing 
to its more frequent presence in-doors and its greater 
ingenuity in devising means of annoyance. Studious 
and thoughtful herself, this sort of woman fancies, 
erroneously, that everybody ought to be the same, 
and incessantly urges her views upon brothers, sisters, 
nieces, nephews, or any other young people over 
whom her years give a presumable authority. 

Upon what ground, might justly be asked, does she 
suppose this to be the only kind of excellence? The 
physician, because he finds present gratification and 
an ever-increasing interest in his profession, does not 
therefore try to persuade all the young men about him 
to adopt the same : neither does the clergyman, law- 
yer, merchant, or artist. True, they fully appreciate 
any interest or sympathy manifested; but if thor- 
oughly absorbed in pursuing their own vocation they 
find no time for interfering with the vocations of 
others. 

To be helpful to the young is a widely different 
thing from trying to make them see or think like their 
elders. The very best help a woman of studious tastes 
can give the young people about her, is, to make her 
own life true and harmonious. Here she has an 
honorable sphere for manifesting the highest results of 
mental culture ; and if her pursuits do not make her 
gentle in manner, sympathetic in spirit, and modest 
in conversation, she has failed to derive from them 
their best fruits. Increase of knowledge, received by 
a true-hearted woman, never causes a fault-finding or 



ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 



309 



dictatorial manner, but tends rather to enlarge her 
natural kindness for, and charitable judgment of, 
others. 

Another kind of antagonism which frequently dis- 
turbs our equanimity is that produced by intercourse 
with "good people." Alluding to Priestley's Life of 
himself, Sir James Mackintosh says : 

" Priestley was a good man, though his life was too 
busy to leave him leisure for that refinement and ardour 
of moral sentiment which have been felt by men of 
less blameless life. . . . His morality was more useful 
than brilliant. But the virtue of the sentimental moral- 
ist is so over-precarious and ostentatious that he can 
seldom be entitled to look down with contempt on the 
steady though homely morals of the household." 

Does Mackintosh mean by this that those who 
practise household virtues with extreme rigor and 
punctuality are incapacitated for lofty sentiment and 
conception? that the daily routine of a meagrely- 
provided home so consumes the energies of intellect 
and affection that there is no elasticity left for the re- 
finements of life ? Certainly we all know that many 
" good" people — " good" in the sense of hard-work- 
ing, practical, steady — are the most uninteresting as 
characters. They become machine-like even in their 
goodness, and their fellow-creatures of quicker minds 
and more ardent sensibilities gradually drift far away 
from them. 

Body and mind are so intimately connected that, 
with equal endowment and culture, two people sim- 
ply through their daily routine may arrive at very 
dissimilar conditions. 

Hawthorne speaks of a character who had so culti- 
27 



3 io ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 

vated his mental part that it could not fail to mould 
the physical to itself and become manifest by unmis- 
takable tokens. A woman compelled to devote the 
best hours of the day to household work or out-door 
occupations which drain her strength, cannot have the 
clear thoughts or the delicate fancies of the woman 
of leisure and seclusion. However gallantly we may 
fight against the law of assimilation, we must finally 
succumb : the people with whom we live and the kind 
of work we do will always prove too strong for our 
wishes or aspirations. Hence, to be at ease and 
happy, socially, we must seek congenial and try to 
escape from antagonistic people. To acquire clear 
reasoning power and strength of imagination, me- 
chanical or frivolous occupations should be avoided 
as much as possible; those whose years are spent in 
mechanical labor can never acquire that knowledge 
of character which follows close and long-continued 
study of human thoughts, motives, and actions. 

Certain habits of antagonistic people which inces- 
santly jar upon our sensibilities may arise simply from 
a want of that indispensable ingredient of comfortable 
social life called " tact." The weighty trifles which 
vex eye, ear, and feeling so powerfully as to estrange 
us from those we " ought" to love may generally be 
traced to that source. 

Who has not been annoyed by the tactless member 
of the family-circle who persistently reads aloud from 
the daily paper the most trivial local items or the 
most shocking accidents, when others are engaged in 
reading or writing? — or by the one who asks incon- 
siderate questions, makes personal remarks or ill- 
timed criticisms, and abruptly stigmatizes as " silly" or 



ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 



31 



" ridiculous" all tastes or pursuits which are unlike his 
own ? 

Or who has not been tormented by guests of this 
tactless stamp ? — those for instance of the reticent, 
self-conscious kind who never move or speak at their 
ease, never show their true colors, and yet expect 
ceaseless exertion on the part of their entertainer? 

Nothing more charming than true hospitality : no- 
thing more exhausting than antagonistic guests. 

When forced to be with antagonistic people, moans 
and groans are forced from us, spite of reason, spite 
of philosophy, spite of resignation : perhaps the wisest 
plan is to acknowledge to the soul just cause for dis- 
content while honorably striving to avoid a repetition 
of the castigation. 

Walpole writing to John Chute exclaims : " Oh! my 
dear sir, don't you find that nine parts in ten of the 
world are of no use but to make you wish yourself 
with that tenth part ? I am so far from growing used 
to mankind by living amongst them, that my natural 
ferocity and wildness do but every day grow worse. 
They tire me, they fatigue me; I don't know what to 
do with them ; I don't know what to say to them ; I 
fling open the windows, and fancy I want air; and 
when I get by myself, I undress myself, and seem to 
have had people in my pockets, in my plaits, and on 
my shoulders! I indeed find this fatigue worse in the 
country than in town, because one can avoid it there 
and has more resources; but it is there too. They 
say there is no English word for Ennui; ... I think 
you may translate it most literally by what is called 
' entertaining people' and ' doing the honours': that is, 
you sit an hour with somebody you don't know and 



312 



ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 



don't care for, talk about the wind and the weather, 
and ask a thousand foolish questions which all begin 
with, ' I think you live a good deal in the country,' or, 
' I think you don't love this thing or that.' Oh ! 'tis 
dreadful !" 

Antagonistic people are no less numerous and 
" dreadful" to-day than in the last century, but our 
consolation may be found in the thought that in 
agreeable contrast to antagonism stands the fact con- 
geniality. 

" At the close of a busy but still very incomplete 
life, it is a great joy to be held in esteem by those to 
whom by right of intellect, taste, and aspiration we 
belong." And this "great joy" to which Humboldt 
thus alludes every one must desire to have, or at least 
to be worthy of. 

The caste of intellect, taste, and aspiration is one of 
honorable distinction, and one to which every member 
of the human family should earnestly strive to belong. 

That birth and circumstances furnish us with our 
quantum of brains and taste, we all know ; but the 
actual use we make of these attributes is of infinitely 
more importance as regards our position in the world 
of worth we admire. 

Society for us, as individuals, means associating on 
terms of equality with people who have similar ideas, 
tastes, manners, and aims ; when in such society 
we are happy and constantly being benefited. What- 
ever of good there may be in us is strengthened 
and developed, evil tendencies are counteracted by 
elevated thoughts, and, there being no need for 
masking our characters, they appear in their natural 
attributes. 



ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 



313 



People are not necessarily hypocritical because they 
act in a manner opposed to feeling. What to one man 
is highest and best, to another may be cause only for 
curiosity and gossip : the soul cannot be laid bare to 
the gaze of the uninitiated. Those who are outwardly 
calm and passive, may possess turbulent hearts: hence 
in certain phases of life their conduct must inevitably 
appear hypocritical. Or excessive imagination joined 
to reserve and a keen sense of ridicule may render us 
liable to exaggerate trifles and attach too little impor- 
tance to the realities of life. 

To know people, therefore, we must judge them less 
by their manner in a mixed company than when at 
home or in a tete-a-tete. Many a noble character is 
completely obscured by the exigencies or restraints of 
custom, and can be known only after close study when 
removed from those fetters. 

Although the term society, flippantly used, brings 
up a formidable array of fatigues, annoyances, and 
inanities, yet in an earnest sense it means very great 
happiness, because it represents people. Without so- 
ciety we could have no friendship; for this supreme 
condition of being, wherein two people find that in- 
voluntary communion of thought and sentiment which 
induces confidence without fear, conversation without 
fatigue, and silence without embarrassment, could 
never occur among men and women untrained by the 
varied experiences of social life. Only a truly noble 
nature is capable of partaking of or yielding friendship, 
and the loftier the standard the rarer the gratification. 
Among all the people encountered in a lifetime there 
seldom appears one whom — even with the greatest 

amount of self-sacrifice — we could make happy;* for 

27* 



314 ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 

while we may willingly work for, amuse, or instruct 
those who cross our path, there can be no happiness 
given without a positive natural similarity of tem- 
peraments. 

But when we meet one to whom we can give un- 
alloyed happiness by being simply what we are, and 
who in return — with no conscious volition — gives us 
the same delight, we may know that we cannot give 
too much friendship. All our oft-repeated desires, 
emotions, and aspirations, which to an unrelated ear 
sound so vapid, foolish, and tiresome, are to the ear 
of friendship natural and harmonious. Even when 
criticism is freely given it never frets or jars upon us, 
for we know it to be calm and just, capable of en- 
couraging, as well as of pointing out defects, although 
never ridiculing, reproaching, or mistrusting. The 
tranquillizing thought that another being has our wel- 
fare so much at heart that even his partiality cannot 
make him hesitate to tell the truth — even to condemn 
when necessary — relieves life of half its responsibility. 
Amid all the excitements of the inner life, and all the 
annoyances of the outward one, this certainty of find- 
ing one soul always ready and always true, acts upon 
us like magic. 

"In the hour of distress and misery," says Walter 
Savage Landor, " the eye of every mortal turns to 
friendship : in the hour of gladness and conviviality 
what is our want? 'tis friendship. When the heart 
overflows with gratitude, or with any other sweet and 
sacred sentiment, what is the word to which it would 
give utterance? my friend" To a friend we come 
when wearied with indispensable activities, as to a 
place of refuge, sure that here are sympathy, interest, 



ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 315 

and help. Life is but an endless repetition of triviali- 
ties which to ardent souls would finally become intol- 
erable were it not for the look, the word, or the smile 
of a friend. Him we can conjure to our side, tell him 
all that annoys us, — let him laugh if he so choose, — 
and derive infinite comfort from his presence. We fear 
neither his ridicule nor his rebuke; indeed, we rather 
desire his critical judgment upon our thinking and 
doing. The thorough trust and beneficent sense of 
repose engendered by the possession of such a friend 
almost cause surprise, sometimes making us think it 
may after all be only a dream, — one pleasant and satis- 
fying, but from which |he awaking will be rude and 
painful. 

Do not many of us know what it is to feel strongly, 
keenly, warmly ? — to try to express some of this, to 
fail in making ourselves understood, and to succeed 
only in making ourselves wondered at and arousing 
suspicions as to our entire sanity? It is like trying to 
talk in an unknown tongue: conscious of having some- 
thing to say not wholly worthless, we are yet unable to 
convey any idea of our meaning. This experience is 
ours when we talk to people generally, not from want 
of courtesy or affection on either side, but simply 
because of dissimilar temperaments. Consequently, it 
is not strange for those who feel intensely to seek the 
ear that can understand, the mind that can appreciate, 
the heart that can sympathize. Companionship to 
such is as absolute a need as food for the* body, and 
they who ignore this fact make a sad mistake, and 
entail endless misery upon themselves and others. 

Can any words overrate those hours we pass with 
a soul-related friend, hours so replete with wholesome 



3i6 



ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 



sweetness that even their memory yields greater joy 
than any other earthly boon ? Soul-communion may 
be enjoyed both with those who lived ages ago, and 
with those wholly unknown personally, but best of 
all with the living ! And yet this intercourse with 
the living is, truly considered, not very far removed 
from that with the dead, for they are often almost 
as inaccessible. For the most part, even when living 
in the same city or neighborhood, we can have our 
dearest friend with us only during brief hours. Indi- 
vidual ties, duties, labors, and interests render any 
thing more than occasional interviews impossible ; 
and even then thoughts and feelings can be only par- 
tially expressed, forcing us to realize that the best 
things of life are more shadowy than real. 

Friendship is one of the soul's passions, which the 
best people of all ages have acknowledged and done 
homage to as a source of happiness, peace, and in- 
spiration. Without it the world of thought and sen- 
timent would be a dreary desert, with it the plainest 
abode becomes illumined, transfigured, blessed ! 

With what a consciousness of rest, of abstraction 
from things worldly and unprofitable, of gratitude for 
the gift of friendship, we seek the quiet nook where 
what our nature most craves always awaits our com- 
ing! In hours passed thus, self-knowledge comes 
to us with unerring certainty, and the daring to be our- 
selves proves to us that the soul has found a com- 
panion. With such a vis-a-vis we may speak of life, 
of its errors, of its significance, and of its end, without 
contempt, awe, or terror: never forgetting our destiny 
as mortals, we yet know entire rest and content in the 
present. 



ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 



317 



When hours which were full of the only kind of 
happiness we believe in — that of friendship — must be 
spoken of as in the past, that past is nevertheless not 
a dream, but a reality which is to us a legacy of ex- 
haustless bounty. To have had one such friend, and 
to have been permitted to enliven, by our trust and 
affection, those hours of dull prose which press so 
heavily upon every highly-endowed nature, bring to 
us the immutable conviction that human joy is not a 
chimera, but a fact which every being worthy of the 
prize may sooner or later grasp. 

Between people of education there is a sort of free- 
masonry which being instantly felt and acted upon 
makes them feel comfortable when together. But 
in this state there is no exhilaration, no sense of 
unusual enjoyment, this last phase requiring positive 
mental and moral affinity. A few words, an expres- 
sion of countenance, or the behavior, will reveal this 
to us, and indicate the possibility of more familiar 
intercourse. Companionship is a nourishment which 
satisfies the deepest wants of the soul, and braces it for 
the unavoidable conflicts and privations entailed upon 
existence. Capable of many different grades, in its 
loftiest manifestation it proves a balm for every dis- 
appointment or humiliation, while in its lowest it is 
merely a temporary bond for the sake of convenience 
or amusement. From the moment we are conscious 
of thought and feeling we seek — every one in his own 
way — to satisfy this want, and, failing to find food 
altogether palatable, are prone to take whatever will 
at least appease hunger. This accounts partially for 
many strange vagaries of companionship in early 
youth. The thoughtful, earnest. child consorts with the 



3i8 ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 

giddy, reckless one, because he is attracted by certain 
characteristics, and he knows nothing as yet of dis- 
crimination. With maturity come caution and fastidi- 
ousness, which cause a decrease in the number of his 
companions, but a higher standard of worth. There are 
moments in our life when looking back into the past 
we discern several distinct eras marked with the indi- 
viduality of the companions we chose. Years have 
passed, and we know not whether we ever shall meet 
them again. What does it matter? That life, with its 
events, its lessons, and its experiences, is gone irre- 
coverably, leaving behind many painful but likewise 
many happy recollections. The life of the present is 
new, unlike the other in all its features, but replete 
likewise with varied sensations and activities. The 
one gone can never be lived over again : the one we 
are now living is full of interest. No reason then for 
murmur or complaint, and we can even recur to expe- 
riences most painful in character as to a series of pic- 
tures or chapters in which another, not the self, was 
the principal actor. This faculty of living new lives, 
throwing off, as it were, certain stages of existence, is 
not given to every one. It seems a power of sepa- 
rating one's individuality from actual events and view- 
ing it as something apart and distinctive. 

Many who think themselves peculiarly fitted for 
friendship, complain that they meet with no appre- 
ciation, no sympathy, no congeniality. Mere feeling, 
however, is no criterion of fitness. A man may wish 
for a thing, labor under a continual sense of chagrin 
and disappointment because he cannot obtain it, and 
yet lack precisely those qualities which make its 
attainment possible. 



ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 



319 



In all recorded instances of devoted friendship we 
find generosity on both sides the most prominent 
feature; so that whoever earnestly craves a noble- 
minded companion must first discover whether he 
be worthy of the honor. Unless we have that within 
which would accord with nobility, we have no right 
to expect to meet it. Generally, if our own lives are 
elevated and harmonious, those of similar traits will 
be attracted to us. Nothing indicates greater moral 
weakness than to wish for a thing without giving 
adequate exertion towards its attainment. By what 
manner of logic can we expect to be admired if we 
are not admirable, or loved if we are not lovable ? 

By all the laws of soul-aristocracy high natures 
cannot consort with low ones, and any attempt to 
force the unnatural condition must result in failure. 
To be recognized and appreciated by our equals, we 
must be simply ourselves. 

On what else, indeed, save this principle of honesty, 
can true worth rest? Supposing that for a time, say 
to gain temporary favor, we succeed in repressing 
our natural tendencies, will not this apparent success 
eventually prove our severest chastisement? For if 
we walk about in disguise, we need not be surprised 
if our friends fail to award us their ordinary respect, 
courtesy, or affection. If we descend from our own 
high standard of thought and sentiment and are con- 
tent with an inferior one, our friendships will partake 
of the same spirit of inferiority. Not a single mean 
thought or selfish impulse which, if harbored, does 
not send its influence through every portion of our 
organization. Impressionable natures, unless endowed 
with great force of will, are liable to adapt themselves 



320 



ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 



to inferior companions, through fear of losing the 
pleasure they derive from partial congeniality. 

It frequently happens, in early life, that, through 
ignorance of the laws of our own being, want of self- 
confidence even when enlightened, or extreme sensi- 
tiveness to the world's opinion, we lose much valuable 
friendship; some of the choicest pleasures of exist- 
ence may be sacrificed to what bears the name of 
duty or necessity, but which in reality arises from a 
motive much meaner or weaker. Later, thanks to 
the knowledge which comes with experience, we 
come to a more conscious life, and discriminate more 
justly between the doctrines of duty and mere con- 
ventionalism, the former, when reasonably appre- 
hended, enabling us to take and enjoy many things 
which the latter arbitrarily forbids. 

To one who holds companionship as the highest of 
earthly pleasures, the loss of a chosen friend is the 
most deadly blow Fate can inflict. 

In vain does the sun shine, in vain do the flowers 
bloom, in vain do the birds sing, when the soul is 
drooping under such a loss ! All outward objects 
assume unattractive forms and hues, or are perhaps 
entirely unheeded by eyes striving to penetrate in- 
scrutable mysteries ! 

What does not make happiness ? is a question 
easily solved when the comforts and luxuries of life 
are viewed with an indifference so absolute that their 
removal would not stir a fibre of our being. Not 
insensible, perhaps, to the charms of color, form, 
and quality — as regards the objects in daily use — 
yet, when compared with the mental and moral at- 



ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 321 

tributes which excite our love, they appear wholly- 
worthless. 

All our treasures would be given, oh, how gladly ! 
for the sake of one hour more of dear companionship 
with the one who was so close to our soul. Even the 
annoyances of life which once were confided to his 
ear and listened to with ready sympathy, now seem 
insignificant and contemptible. 

Who can answer the agonized questionings of the 
soul as to Where? What? How long? Who can 
penetrate mysteries which religion, philosophy, and 
the still greater enigma called " faith," make only the 
more profound? 

What, we cry, — when, bowed with grief, we walk 
mechanically through our parts, gazing at things in 
possession which but a little while before seemed 
so desirable, — what now are all these worth to us ? 
What satisfaction can these toys, these fabrics, these 
unmeaning civilities yield, now that the heart's nour- 
ishment is taken away? 

Who can tell in what moment grief will fall upon 
and rob life of all its value and sweetness? In youth 
we fear the strange, dark, awful fact called death. 
Full of hope and joyousness in the anticipation of 
life's good gifts, never for an instant doubting that the 
joys we read of and embellish in our own minds with 
still greater brilliancy are at some future time to be 
ours, — how, indeed, could grief be believed in? How 
could youth be brought to understand that those 
ardent feelings and intense desires implanted in his 
breast may, possibly, never see fulfilment? Surely, 
he argues, Nature — if she be the good mother we 
are taught to love — could not be so cruel as first to 

28 



322 ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 

awaken and then to deny the gratification of those 
feelings and desires \ Year after year they beset him, 
and although always met with stern denial, he never 
loses the hope of one day possessing and becoming 
tranquillized in that possession. Duties are fulfilled, 
annoyances submitted to, disappointments endured, 
humiliations borne, because within chants the refrain, 
Bear this and this, O mortal, without murmur, for 
the time cometh when all will be healed and com- 
forted by the fruition of thy hopes ! Wealth, station, 
fine raiment, and gay associates, — all these seem but 
as passing shadows compared to the supreme joys 
the heart of youth dreams of perpetually. 

Strange and terrible does death seem to him in 
those days from the fear that it may come and bear 
him to the unknown land ere these sweet dreams are 
realized. Thus passes the first period. With the 
departure of youth, what a change comes over the 
self-same being ! The objects once so fervently 
prayed for came at last, although in guise so different 
from expectation that it was long before they were 
recognized. Doubt, anxiety, bewilderment, for a time 
distracted his heart, but finally there came hours in 
which all tribulations were divested of their bitterness 
by the gratification of life-long cherished wishes, and 
his sole prayer was for continuance of the joy then 
experienced. 

Thus passes the second period. 

The third is ushered in with a storm in which all 
the elements of body and spirit are at war, and whose 
effects will be felt till the close of existence. All that 
had been so ardently prayed for, joyfully accepted, and 
tremblingly enjoyed, is torn from the mortal and hurled 



ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 323 

into that abyss of grief from which nothing has ever 
been recovered save memory of past joy. Nevermore 
can life be to thee the same, O mortal, nevermore 
canst thou know a renewal of the past. Weep if thou 
wilt, but only in those- hours when no human eye is a 
witness to thy stricken condition ; and, weeping, re- 
member that thy lot is special — not to thee alone — 
but to humanity! What thou hast known and suf- 
fered will continue to be known and suffered' by as 
many — constituted like thee — as are now living or as 
shall live after thee. Hide thy tears and stifle thy 
cries of anguish — not from shame for the cause, but 
from a desire to spare others the sight of misery 
they cannot prevent or assuage! Close thy heart to 
longing and hoping, and live henceforth solely to 
accomplish thy work, whatever thou knowest it to be ! 
Live, not for vain show and weary conformity, but 
for the development of the noblest faculties of reason 
and imagination! When this stage of life has been 
reached, death no longer seems strange or awful, and 
the mature being dwells upon it with calm pleasure 
rather than with dread. 

Blessed terminus of struggle and suffering, he cries, 
I hail thy advent, whether near or distant, as the sole 
mode of quieting the tumults of this restless soul ! 
Painfully susceptible to the transcendent beauties of 
Ideality, I have never found peace in the realities 
around me, and the hopes that once yielded me such 
strength and delight have proved wholly illusory. Life 
— such as is possible with honor — has been sounded 
and been found wanting in power to give the satis- 
faction once deemed attainable. Death will not be 
sought, nor asked for, because of a desire still strong 



324 ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 

within the soul to do my appointed task ; but, should 
the hour come before this task is ended, -before aught 
has been done to keep my name green in the memory 
of the good and loving among my fellow-creatures, 
methinks regret will yield to the sense of rest and 
gain acquired ! Sunlight, verdure, flowers, mountain, 
valley, sea, and lake, all these are full of beauty and 
charm ; so likewise are the myriad forms of grace and 
goodness which men and women unfold. Neverthe- 
less, nothing in all visible nature, nothing in all living 
humanity, can reinstate the illusions of hope or quicken 
a desire for continuance of life under the old conditions 
of suffering. 

If the lesson had not been learned before, the loss 
of a soul-friend teaches us to appreciate and enjoy the 
present, to say to ourselves when with one we love : 
How long shall we be together? How long will these 
opportunities for communion continue ? We know 
not: why then permit any obstacle, save positive duty, 
to mar our mutual happiness? 

A man of culture and conscience may fully realize 
the fearful risks attending human life and human plans, 
and yet derive delicious nectar and exquisite perfume 
from existence. A philosopher in thought, a poet in 
feeling, a philanthropist in action — living closely up 
to his own standard of right, while at the same time 
extracting happiness from a thousand sources which 
others less enlightened would pass by unnoticed, — 
such a man is not a creature of the imagination, but a 
reality which more than one of us have beheld face to 
face. 

Of all the human beings encountered in a lifetime, 



ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 325 

most of them must necessarily be antagonistic to one 
of a refined and sensitive organization. The servant 
whom we employ does not know he is rude and abrupt 
in manner, and when reminded of it, never so gently, 
thinks himself more or less aggrieved. Nevertheless, 
that very manner causes so unpleasant a sensation to 
his employer that he shrinks from giving even the 
necessary orders for the day. Yet that servant's ser- 
vices may be valuable and not to be conveniently 
dispensed with : so he is retained, although his very 
presence always mars personal comfort, and even the 
recollection and anticipation of it are equally disagree- 
able. The child who visits us, or who is temporarily 
given into our charge, is happily ignorant of the im- 
pression he makes; but we cannot ignore the dislike 
we feel for his awkwardness, ill-breeding, surliness, or 
dulness. We cannot permit ourselves to be unjust in 
our treatment of him, nor do we suffer him to see any 
trace of the antagonism he awakens. But it is there, 
makes itself felt every time the child is beheld, and 
never can be overcome. The child has his own 
antagonisms in abundance, and we may or may not 
be one of them: consequently, we see no reason to 
censure ourselves, but simply feel a strong need for 
complete self-control, for courtesy's or humanity's 
sake. 

The man or the woman met in society or in busi- 
ness affairs affects us similarly, and we would gladly 
avoid intercourse could it be done with due regard to 
civility. If it be only to exchange a morning greeting 
or to purchase a trifling article, we have preferences 
stronger than we should care to express ; this last 
simply because non-susceptible, non-refined natures 

28* 



326 ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 

look upon the subtleties of antagonism and attraction 
as decided marks of unsoundness of mind. No one 
cares to be pointed at or thought unsound even by 
his inferiors, so that multitudes of men and women 
pass through life racked at every step and in every 
sentiment without even the poor satisfaction of giving 
vent to their sensations. 

The only sure means of counteracting the distresses 
caused by human antagonisms is intimate acquaintance 
with human nature and mental capacity of reasoning 
upon its enigmas. This enables us to face our fellow- 
creatures without trembling, shuddering, or fighting; 
to treat them fairly without attempting to give them 
all the same degree of respect or affection ; to assist 
them as occasion offers without professing personal 
regard; to study their peculiarities without being re- 
pulsed; to behold their evil conduct without being 
shocked, their eccentricities without being surprised. 
So much for the mass : while for the few with whom 
our personality can assimilate, we cherish unbounded 
reverence and affection, count every moment spent in 
their presence as a marked privilege, value every 
thought that falls from their lips as treasure to be 
hoarded. We may or we may not see them often — 
circumstances, not we ourselves, decide this — but when 
we do see them, we are refreshed and made happy ; 
when separated, we dwell upon their attractive points 
with extreme pleasure, and let them act as antidotes 
to the poisonous antagonisms of others. 

This acquaintance with human nature tranquillizes, 
too, by balancing good and bad, agreeable and dis- 
agreeable, beautiful and ugly, by furnishing reasons 
for our hate as well as for our love, and making us 



ANTAGONISTIC PEOTLE. 



327 



quite comfortable in the certainty that, with certain 
modifications of morality and self-control, we are not 
responsible for either. 

Again, it is worth our study because it strengthens 
whatever we possess of ability, honesty, or charitable- 
ness ; makes us patient not only with the stupidity or 
weakness of others, but also with our own; fortifies 
us in the belief that, while we may not have genius, 
we may have perseverance enough to keep upon the 
road which reason assures us leads to an honorable 
destination. 

Absolute fairness to all grades and forms of humanity 
— although it will not render us less susceptible to 
human antagonisms — will qualify us to penetrate to 
their sources and discover ameliorations for their 
effects. Absolute fairness to ourselves will not change 
our characteristics of intellect or sentiment, but will 
clothe us with authority in their development and 
adaptation. 

Through self-discipline and culture two people of 
decidedly antagonistic natures may live together upon 
the most amicable terms: each leaving to the other the 
utmost liberty of thought and action, there can be no 
clashing, no enmity, no quarrelling. But that no two 
people thus dissimilar would choose to live together 
is a fact requiring neither assertion nor argument. 
For who wishes to be always watching his own words 
and looks, always avoiding causes for disagreement 
or weighing the results of actions? Yet without such 
incessant circumspection peaceable living under the 
same roof would be wholly impossible where antago- 
nism exists. 

There is then not only the amplest justification for 



328 ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 

us to avoid such a condition of living whenever the 
question is permitted discussion with a view to choice, 
but there are reasons as absolute for selecting an at- 
mosphere congenial to temperament, as for selecting 
one congenial to physical health. 



ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. 



There are two worlds; the world that we can measure with line and 
rule, and the world that we feel with our hearts and imaginations. To 
be sensible of the truth of only one of these, is to know truth but by 
halves. — Leigh Hunt. 

The critic, then, should be not merely a poet, not merely a philoso- 
pher, not merely an observer, but tempered of all three. — Margaret 
Fuller Ossoli. 

'Tis hard to say if greater want of skill 
Appear in writing or in judging ill; 
But of the two less dangerous is th' offence 
To tire our patience than mislead our sense : 
Some few in that, but numbers err in this, 
Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss; 
A fool might once himself alone expose, 
Now one in verse makes many more in prose. 

Pope. 

To many people the world of romance is far more 
real and satisfactory than the one they "can measure/' 
so that they are fully justified in devoting as much 
time and enthusiasm to one as to the other. 

In ordinary modes of thought the two departments 
are deemed wholly separated, while their respective 
students are continually engaged in those petty quar- 
rels which correspond to partisanship in the state. 
But to discover the truth in. any vexed question we 

329 



330 



ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. 



do not rely upon popular belief: we turn to those 
noble intellects which by their intense application to 
the solution of difficult problems merit our respect 
and confidence. 

And of these we listen most reverently to the one 
which believes that "the eye of imagination sees 
farther than the glasses of astronomy," and in its 
teachings urges us into contemplation of the whole 
rather than of detached parts of the universe. " But 
while insisting on the claim of Intellect to pursue its 
ideal objects," says G. H. Lewes, "and to be uncon- 
trolled in its prosecution of even the remotest re- 
search, we must never forget that its ideal ends are 
only sanctified by the final end — by that correspond- 
ence with Reality which was its starting-point and 
must be its goal. No speculation, however wide of 
actual experience, can be valueless, if, in any way, it 
enlarge our vision of the Real ; but this is its final 
test. If with mighty span of wing, it soar above the 
sphere of the Real, it must not keep hovering there, 
but must at some point re-enter the sphere. Ideal con- 
struction is unlimited in freedom, on the understand- 
ing that it must always submit to real verification, and 
have values assigned to its symbols." 

To the mind endowed with imaginative power, real 
life is full of romance, and every hour of even the 
'most uneventful experience furnishes abundant mate- 
rial for novels, allegories, fables, and fairy-tales. A 
person of prosaic mind may encounter very romantic 
incidents and pass them over as commonplace; 
whereas an imaginative person lives in a perpetually- 
fresh atmosphere of romance even when nothing in 
his outward life deviates from the ordinary routine. 



ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. 33! 

Hence the most perfect specimens of fictitious narra- 
tive are not dependent upon any external incidents, 
but simply upon the coloring given by imagination to 
everyday occurrences. The characters of a novel, if 
drawn by a master-hand, are recognized as actual 
men and women with new names ; and their deeds, 
whether great or small, are in consonance with their 
time, station, and education. 

In real life, we judge people by manner, words, and 
actions, and when they transgress the acknowledged 
code of their class, their peers at once stamp them as 
unfitted for or as disgracing their position. By the 
same law of association we judge their representatives 
in fiction : and when incongruities appear, we may 
rightly conclude that the artist has not made his 
studies from nature. If, then, we have a just appre- 
ciation of the term aristocracy, we are made indignant 
by seeing in a novel that a "gentleman" belonging to 
that favored class can, under provocation, descend to 
scurrility of language, or cowardly assault upon a 
woman, — or that a "lady" from the same class can so 
far forget the dignity of her station as to listen to the 
suggestions of her ignorant and vicious maid con- 
cerning a crime both of them contemplate. 

Not that people high in station may not plan or 
commit base crimes: but the mode in which tempta- 
tion assails them, as well as their mode of resisting or 
yielding to it, is in accord with character and breed- 
ing. Likewise after the commission of crime : the 
consequences direct or indirect — including remorse — 
will rebound upon the individual of refinement and 
education with far greater force than upon one of 
vulgar habits and hardened sensibilities. Moral jus- 



332 



ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. 



tice forbids, too, that fictitious characters presented 
to us at first as virtuous, should, without perceptible 
corrupting influences, suddenly fall from candor to 
deceit, from truth to falsehood ; and when they are 
represented as committing not only grave errors but 
blackest crimes without a compunction of conscience 
or a pang of remorse, members of the same class 
have a right to protest indignantly against such a 
delineation of their associates. 

Except where parentage and surroundings have in- 
duced precocious vice, people do not commit flagrant 
violations of morality without preliminary steps: and 
that Art should either show or narrate these steps, 
is claimed by all who have un-sensational ideas of 
ethics. 

That apparent anomalies exist in Nature, and that 
these may mislead many sincere people, will not be 
disputed. A man may at one period of his career b? 
high in position and of unblemished character, while 
at another he may be very low socially and harboi 
the worst principles. But — and here is the point af- 
issue — upon investigating his mode of life between 
those two periods, we are not at all surprised at th* 
change. Extraordinary effects can invariably be traced 
to causes equally powerful : and if this be so in rea 
life, why not in fiction? Why should not character 
there be depicted according to natural laws ? If th? 
hero of the tale, for instance, be described as hating 
cant and every form of hypocrisy, are we not led t« 
infer that he possesses a germ of sound moralit) 
which at some period in his career will produo- 
honest living on his part? Not that we should ex 
pect him to reach his standard : for we well knov 



ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. 



333 



that while hatred of cant may be accepted as a sign 
of innate sense of right, it is by no means a panoply 
against moral lethargy or transgression. Ability to 
discern blemishes does not imply exemption from 
them. A man may indeed have that faculty of dis- 
cernment highly developed while he himself is thor- 
oughly unprincipled; but supposing him possessed of 
intelligence, he will not be so unconsciously, and will 
be far from boasting of his superiority to other men. 

Or if the hero of a novel be endowed with fine 
intellectual powers in addition to material wealth, we 
should hardly expect to hear him complain of having 
no special sphere of action. If he have not found one, 
whose fault but his own ? 

Even supposing his early training to have been per- 
nicious, showing no attempt on the part of parents or 
teachers to control or direct his strong nature: in this 
case, the battle with self would be a hard one, but no 
harder than many others have engaged in and come 
out of either victorious or honorably scarred. Natu- 
ral to infer, moreover, that if a man of parts experience 
the ills resulting from early indulgence, he would 
earnestly strive to acquire self-control, and not — as 
the novel demonstrates — continue unresistingly to 
drain the cup of sensual pleasure until a broken con- 
stitution necessitates desistance. 

Again : if essential to the interest of the story or 
considered consistent with reality that a young man 
must be portrayed as headstrong, self-indulgent, or 
fool- hardy, it would seem as if he might in middle 
age — conformably to real life — be permitted to show 
us something better. Experience, it is true, teaches 
fools nothing : but the hero now in view— one taken 

-29 



334 



ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. 



from a popular novel — is not in that category, but, on 
the contrary, is said to be endowed with unusual in- 
tellectual force. So that when he reaches middle age 
with as little sense of moral obligation as in youth, 
with augmented cynicism and inertia, we refuse him 
either admiration or respect. 

Or if he be drawn with strong inherited passions, 
neither is this a plea for leading a lawless life. A hot 
temper or an iron will is often accompanied by other, 
possibly very noble, traits, for which the progenitor 
should be held in grateful remembrance. 

Neither is it possible to comprehend by what dia- 
lectical subtlety a novelist can make an unfortunate 
marriage the cause of a useless or licentious life. 
Granting that a rash, unwise, or ill-assorted union 
entails consequences utterly destructive of domestic 
harmony, it cannot therefore be deduced that either 
the husband or the wife is by reason of that discord 
released from all moral responsibility as an individual. 
A fatal code indeed, that which would permit all those 
who have found unhappiness in marriage, to lead 
reckless lives and then attribute their vices, forsooth, 
to disappointment in that venture ! Upon the same 
convenient principle, any species of levity or excess 
might be sanctioned simply by producing sufficient 
proofs of our unhappiness ! 

Marriage, like a journey taken for our pleasure or 
interest, is usually entered upon voluntarily. When, 
therefore, accidents or disasters occur, it surely be- 
tokens excessive puerility to accuse the undertaking 
as the cause of our misery and the excuse for ill- 
temper or dissipation. 

Turning from the ethical to the esthetic side, we are 



ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. 



335 



often disagreeably impressed by the persistency with 
which certain novels bring physical ailments or de- 
formities to view. In real life it is tacitly understood 
that such subjects are to be avoided in conversation, 
save for some special reason of courtesy or humanity. 
Certainly none of us desire to hear the painful details 
of disease and suffering, unless we are actuated by a 
morbid fancy, or feel competent to offer relief or con- 
solation. 

Therefore, to carry this bad taste into fiction, mak- 
ing the prominent character physically repulsive and 
describing symptoms with an accuracy suitable only 
for a medical journal, is to violate every law of fitness, 
to commit a fault utterly reprehensible and unpardon- 
able. 

" Nature," says Hawthorne, " thrusts some of us 
into the world miserably incomplete on the emotional 
side, with hardly any sensibilities except which per- 
tain to us as animals. No passion save of the senses; 
no holy tenderness, nor the delicacy that results from 
this." 

In the same " miserably incomplete" manner many 
modern novels are ushered into existence ; and while 
— humanely speaking — nobody is to blame, it is well 
to try and prevent their influence from overshadowing 
those people who take ideas and facts found in books 
for granted, and chancing upon an injurious set, im- 
bibe its principles and try to embody them in their 
own lives. Regarding fiction in this light, we cannot 
have too great a reverence for good work, or too 
severe a condemnation for unsound morality or care- 
less execution. 



336 ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. 

Whatever tends to make or unmake character merits 
profound thought and cautious analysis : attention to 
these two points would prove that far more people are 
corrupted through the worship of fictitious idols than 
through association with the same class in actual life. 

If people have any thing in head or heart worthy 
of being listened to, a novel may be justly esteemed 
one of the forms most likely to reach the public ear. 
And it matters little to the reader whether the story 
that charms him be written in orthodox or unorthodox 
style : if conceived when heart and brain were aglow 
and composed when the fires of imagination had 
grown cool, it cannot fail to appeal to his reason and 
stir his sympathies. A faithful delineation of passion 
is something as real as life itself, but can be accom- 
plished only by obeying inspiration and seizing auspi- 
cious moments for its expression. 

When a novel thrifls us with emotion, becomes to 
us as actual a creation as the beings of flesh and blood 
we see about us, we may know that it is a spontane- 
ous growth of intellectual and spiritual experience. 
And when moved — as many impulsive natures are — 
to imitation of a favorite hero or heroine, the prompt- 
ing need not be despised. For however forcible the 
argument that no two beings, either in romance or in 
reality, are endowed with the same qualities or placed 
in the same circumstances, hence the futility of choos- 
ing examples for imitation or precedent — nevertheless, 
character as a principle may be worthily and practi- 
cally imitated. The creation of a hero or heroine 
combining nobility of soul with strong and generous 
action must infallibly prove a strong incentive to simi- 
lar conduct on the part of living beings of susceptible 



ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. 337 

temperament. Consequently, a character in fiction 
may become a positive and powerful aid to real people 
although without specifying which course they are 
to take in any given complication. Imaginary heroes 
and heroines, if of good quality, cannot be too numer- 
ous or too closely imitated. Judged by the principles 
which govern or influence their prototypes they can 
no longer be called fictitious, but simply emblematic, 
and are as worthy of our study as the works of the 
sculptor or the artist. 

In referring to such types we recall with satisfaction 
the opinion of the Ettrick Shepherd of the Noctes 
Ambrosianae, as follows ; 

"North. James, I wish you would review for Maga 
all those fashionable Novels — Novels of High Life; 
such as Pelham — the Disowned 

" Shepherd. I've read thae twa, and they're baith 
gude. But the mair I think on't, the profounder is 
my conviction that the strength o' human nature lies 
either in the highest or lowest state of life. Charac- 
ters in books should either be kings, and princes, and 
nobles, and on a level with them, like heroes; or 
peasants, shepherds, farmers, and the like, includin' 
a' orders amaist o' our ain working population. The 
intermediate class — that is, leddies and gentlemen in 
general — are no worth the Muse's while; for their life 
is made up chiefly o' mainners — mainners — mainners; 
— you canna see the human creturs for their claes; 
and should ane o' them commit suicide in despair, in 
lookin' on the dead body, you are mair ta'en up wi' 
its dress than its decease. 

"Tickler. Is this Tay or Tweed salmon, James? 

" Shepherd. Tay, to be sure — it has the Perthshire 
29* 



338 



ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. 



accent, verra pallateable. These leddies and gentle- 
men in fashionable novels, as in fashionable life, are 
aye intrig — trig — triguin — this leddy with that ane's 
gentleman, and this gentleman with that ane's leddy, — 
then it's a' fund out through letters or keyholes, and 
there's a duel, and a divorce, and a death, the per- 
petual repetition o' which, I confess, gets unco weari- 
some." 

That every novel is written with a purpose, one 
definite and satisfactory to the author, may be safely 
assumed ; but to readers of mediocre understanding 
the majority of novels are so entirely devoid of every 
element that can entertain or enlighten, that the eulo- 
giums pronounced upon them by literary critics must 
be suspected of bastard origin. 

The needs of trade, well-meant kindness towards 
authors, or positive inefficiency in the critic — any or 
all of these may produce the encomium which gives 
the new novel a wide circulation: but as a country 
advances in years and culture something higher and 
more beneficial is demanded. 

When a stranger presents himself with a good letter 
of introduction we receive him with due cordiality for 
the letter-writer's sake, but notwithstanding claim the 
privilege of forming our own unbiassed opinion of the 
new-comer. In the same spirit we receive new books 
that come well recommended. Assuming willingly 
that both author and publisher have good intentions 
and do their utmost to make them palpable, we accord 
their work fair treatment, although deeming close 
examination needless save for reasons of public in- 
terest. What possible difference can it make to people 



ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. 



339 



earnestly occupied with their own affairs, whether 
sensation novels come into the world by tens or by 
thousands, so long as there is no obligation to read 
them ? Why not regard them stoically as merely a 
disagreeable fact, one among many we would rather 
avoid than encounter ? But, for obviously wise pur- 
poses, we are not permitted to avoid disagreeable 
facts, and, willingly or otherwise, are forced into 
examination and expression of opinion. 

Voltaire, alluding to Richardson's Clarissa Harlowe, 
writes: 

" It is cruel to expect a man of my vivacity to read 
through nine volumes containing absolutely nothing, 
and which are intended, apparently, merely to show 
that Miss Clarissa is in love with a debauchee named 
Lovelace. Why, even if all those people were my rela- 
tives or friends I could not take any interest in them! 

"The author strikes me as a shrewd man who, 
knowing the curiosity of the human race, promises 
something from volume to volume in order to insure 
their sale." 

Now, although we of the nineteenth century are no 
longer taxed with nine-volume novels, we have gained 
nothing, by reason of the alarming increase in num- 
bers. Instead of nine volumes at long intervals as in 
the last century, we now find it no easy task to count 
the single volumes issued from month to month and 
from week to week. And whoever would maintain a 
reputation for ordinary intelligence, dare not neglect 
reading or, at least, "looking over" a portion of these 
literary productions. Even those people who profess 
indifference to the flashing jewel named "popularity" 
are induced to search into its causes. 



340 ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. 

If the nation be amused, instructed, or excited by a 
book, we would fain examine its contents and make 
ourselves acquainted with the tastes of the nation. 

To exact that the plot of a novel should be in har- 
mony with fact and possibility implies neither restraint 
nor limitation of the imaginative faculty. For is it 
not readily conceded that the records of actual life 
furnish more incidents of a romantic and extraordi- 
nary nature than all the novelists in the world could 
exhaust? As a bare record of romantic facts, how- 
ever, would not make a romance, we must infer that 
it is less the incidents themselves than the mode of 
delineation which declares the power of the writer. 

In the most famous chefs-d'oeuvre of fiction we find 
plots of the simplest construction : underlying this, 
however, is a central idea from which all others ema- 
nate, and a definite purpose which, however skilfully 
elaborated and delicately colored, gives tone to every 
character and incident. We find likewise Analysis — 
that which penetrates the surface of character and 
unveils motives, feelings, wishes, hopes, and fears : 
Passion — that force of the soul which in the pursuit 
of its object carries a man beyond himself, causing 
forgetfulness of opinion, position, or danger: Senti- 
ment—that refining element which necessitates affec- 
tion, sympathy, and devotion : and lastly, Construc- 
tion: — that dexterous management of materials which 
brings divers parts into a whole which, from whatever 
side beheld, is perfectly symmetrical. The last quali- 
fication is, apparently, more rare than the others, so 
that it is not uncommon to see a writer with talent, 
material, and ideality sufficient for a host of novels, ex- 
periencing great difficulty in constructing a single one. 



ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. 



341 



Just as an artist draws his figures from real life, 
intensifying, idealizing, or caricaturing their striking 
points, so a novelist looks into society for the originals 
of his fictitious creations, and enhances their beauties 
or exaggerates their defects according to the supposed 
exigencies of the narrative, or his own fancy. To an 
experienced writer the construction of a plot causes 
as little concern as the invention of characters, for the 
simple reason that the world of men and women about 
him presents an endless variety from which to select. 
Has not every man some conception of a plot when 
he glances at the incidents of his own life, or at those 
of his neighbor? Does not every day bring before 
our notice precisely the materials of which novels are 
composed — the wealth, poverty, strength, weakness, 
virtue, vice, happiness, and misery which constitute 
life ? For a novel, then, nothing more is needed, ap- 
parently, than to transcribe familiar scenes and char- 
acters and illumine them with imagination: but the 
numerous and pitiable failures constantly appearing 
testify loudly that much more than transcribing and 
illumining is needed. If novels are to be incorporated 
into the literature of a country, and rank with history, 
poetry, and science, they should be admitted solely 
upon the basis of truthfulness to nature. Not that 
this should imply dulness or prosiness ; on the con- 
trary, it admits all the variety, warmth, brilliancy, and 
depth which nature everywhere manifests. A novel 
may be the means of introducing any kind of theory, 
sentiment, or philosophy, keeping always in view the 
fact that minds of many different conditions are to be 
entertained or instructed. With the object the novelist 
has in view the critic has very little concern, for people 



342 ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. 

are under no obligation to read a book unless it 
appeals to their sympathies or tastes ; but what the 
critic should feel very deeply concerned about is the 
mode in which the novelist makes his characters think, 
speak, and act. Most people, if accustomed to observe 
those around them, in even a desultory way, very soon 
acquire a knowledge of their peculiarities, and would 
quickly detect a false representation of them, whether 
it took the form of affectation, assumption, or cari- 
cature. 

True, if a man is pleased with trash, and honestly 
avows it, he cannot be censured. But the fact of his 
being thus pleased is the one which calls for exami- 
nation, and for an antidote in the shape of criticism ; 
and none being too old to be taught, such an antidote 
promptly administered, may be effectual in extirpating 
ignorance and prejudice. Not that criticism is in itself 
agreeable, or ever likely to be graciously received. On 
the contrary, even the utmost gentleness on the part 
of a literary Mentor may be unable to prevent a sud- 
den rise of resentment in the breast of the hearer ; but 
with the abatement of this little gust of passion he 
is usually ready not only to acknowledge his defi- 
ciencies but also to request aid in overcoming them. 
Whatever the degree of a reader's experience, there 
is always some one to whom he will naturally appeal 
for advice. 

A novel which conforms to principles of true art, 
and at the same time thrills the hearts of multitudes 
by its beauty and passion, is so rare an event in the 
history of literature that it must be ranked with all 
other works of inspiration. 



ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. 



343 



How many among our own novelists are giving the 
world faithful pictures of life as it is to-day in the 
United States ? Who indeed would be daring enough 
to portray accurately the lives lived by multitudes of 
men and women in our so-called good society? In 
order to give a faithful representation of manners, cus- 
toms, incidents, and character as found in any given 
age, the novelist cannot avoid those heavy shadows 
which passion, idleness, and deliberate wickedness 
produce in social life. However small or insignificant 
the community, those shadows are apparent, and must 
be reproduced if the picture is to have due effect. 
This much granted, the mode of portrayal is the next 
and all-important question. In actual life we know in 
how many different ways the same story may be told. 
From the lips of one it may utterly shock our sense 
of delicacy and refinement, causing us to regret — tem- 
porarily — the faculty of hearing; while from the lips 
of another the same facts may come so veiled with 
benevolence that their most repulsive features inspire 
pity rather than disgust. The same difference pre- 
cisely is manifest in novels. It is less the dreadful 
thing that occurs than the crude and vulgar mode of 
telling it which arouses indignant protest against such 
narratives being given to miscellaneous readers : for 
although nothing pertaining to the interests of man- 
kind need be concealed from those who look at pain- 
ful sights for the sake of learning their cause or their 
remedy, it cannot be otherwise than injurious to per- 
mit the young and unreflecting — or those influenced 
merely by curiosity — to witness them. 

Is it desirable, can it serve any wise end, to intro- 
duce young girls to those characters in fiction which 



344 



ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. 



in real life they would never meet? — permit them to 
hear their language, to learn their vicious sentiments 
and modes of life, and to become painfully familiar 
with haunts of social corruption? Every year seems 
to bring increased boldness in describing depraved 
people of both sexes, so that even quite young girls, 
after an indiscriminate course of novels, may be heard 
glibly discussing complex questions of affinity, divorce, 
or immorality with all the sang-froid but with none 
of the earnestness of veteran moralists. None who 
observe the modes of thought and the manners of 
the young girls of America can doubt that there is 
an almost universal lack of that maidenly gentleness 
which, by the best judges of all nations, has ever been 
deemed the most attractive ornament of their sex and 
age. That independence of manner which culminates 
in brusqueness is one of the traits which most detracts 
from a woman's influence ; and the tendency of demo- 
cratic institutions to foster this trait can be counter- 
acted only by Ideality. A woman who bears within 
herself a lofty ideal of female beauty and excellence 
is naturally prompted to avoid national defects, and to 
aim at the cultivation of the refinement her mind per- 
ceives. But if a young girl's intelligence be allowed 
to feed upon the low representations of men and 
women found in the mass of novels she is at liberty 
to read, her mature womanhood will show the due 
effects of such unwholesome nurture. Where a high 
degree of intellectual susceptibility exists — in either 
sex — the entire range of thought may be said to de- 
pend upon the works of fiction selected in early youth. 
Can we not conceive of the vast changes a century 
of novel-reading might make in the women of America 



ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. 345 

if the books they pored over inculcated sound doc- 
trines of morality, and noble ideas of grace and 
beauty? We may say "women" here advisedly; first, 
because they read many more novels than men, and 
second, because upon the women of a country de- 
pends mainly the character of its men and children. 
The best school in the country can do nothing for a 
girl if her mind be enfeebled or poisoned by fictitious 
trash. 

" The purpose of Knowledge being to regulate Con- 
duct," says G. H. Lewes, "and the nature of Knowl- 
edge being that of virtual Feeling, the importance of 
Sentiment both as regulative and representative is in- 
disputable. None but shrivelled souls, with narrow 
vision of the facts of life, can entertain the notion that 
Philosophy ought to be restricted within the limits of 
the Logic of Signs ; it has roots in the Logic of Feel- 
ing, and many of its products which cannot emerge 
into the air of exact science, nevertheless give the im- 
pulse to theories, and regulate conduct." 

To attempt to write a work of fiction with an ideal 
of man made real, would be preposterous. No ideal 
of beauty, grace, intelligence, or goodness ever can be 
attained by mortal man or woman : the utmost the 
best and wisest people can do is to spend their lives in 
seeking what Ideality indicates. Consequently, when 
told of a novel that such and such a character is 
presumed to be the author's ideal of a perfect man, 
woman, or child, we turn away with impatient incre- 
dulity, feeling very much as children do when they 
frankly acknowledge that they like stories about 
naughty boys and girls better, than those about good 

30 



346 ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. 

ones. We all, whether children or adults, want to 
hear true stories idealized — that is, clothed in those 
rainbow-colors which every character looked at with 
the imagination presents. But although the attain- 
ment of perfection is impossible, it is the striving after 
it which makes the ideal people we dream of and long 
to know and love. And the reason is simple enough : 
we are well aware that effort, labor, and enthusiasm 
applied anywhere, accomplish whatever good or beauty 
the world has to show. If the whole cannot be at- 
tained by mortal minds or hands, we are content with 
a part, and give our admiration and love to him who 
strives hardest in the undertaking. So that in the 
works of fiction presented to us to read we are right 
in demanding that the heroes and heroines held up 
for admiration should possess heroism, that superiority 
of spirit which answers to our highest conception of 
real flesh and blood. 

It matters little where these heroes and heroines are 
born, or indeed what they do, provided their thoughts 
and aims are above — not their station — but the ignor- 
ance, cupidity, and vulgarity which surround them. 

Writers and readers are alike responsible for the 
good or bad literature of a country; but the latter if 
trained to a sounder judgment would quickly decide 
the fate of meretricious books, and thus discourage the 
volunteers who are continually reinforcing the ranks, 
although too often only to disgrace the standard they 
follow. 

To what degree an author should draw his opinions 
or deductions from self-consciousness and experience, 
cannot be settled by any formula. In the lowest form 



ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. 347 

of this mode of writing, the author makes himself the 
hero of every story he writes, palliating his faults, 
justifying his crimes, or painting him as he might 
have been save for cruel fate : and to an unvitiated 
taste nothing is more offensive than this species of 
sickly sentimentality. But in other and higher forms, 
where the aim is to illustrate errors or passions com- 
mon to all — with the view of aiding in their control 
or eradication — an author may justly avail himself of 
personal history as the most forcible means of in- 
culcating his moral or his warning. And to those 
readers whose own inner lives are intense, the interest 
of a novel is greatly enhanced by knowing that the 
author's own experience is there transcribed. Their 
interest in him as a real living being is carried over 
to the imaginary men and women he depicts ; and 
if possessed of psychological discernment they will 
know, too, that an author like all other men passes 
through many phases of thought and feeling in the 
course of a life, and in his fictitious narrative may 
ingeniously fit his character to those phases and its 
incidents. Not that this necessitates the thrusting of 
himself before the world : for just as in every-day life 
a man of tact and self-control may freely express his 
opinions without revealing the source whence they 
have been derived, so the author's actual life may fur- 
nish the main incidents of his novel, while he himself 
remains wholly concealed from the world. In the 
familiar intercourse of private life, egotism is not 
always objectionable ; but it becomes so in a super- 
lative degree when in any public matter men seek to 
attract attention to themselves rather than to their 
principles or their work. 



348 ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. 

The creative author makes his characters think and 
act according to their respective abilities and tenden- 
cies : right or wrong, noble or ignoble, they work 
out their destinies while the author apparently only 
imagines or directs the circumstances in which they 
are to act. Whether such creations are to benefit 
humanity depends wholly upon the moral force of the 
author. A mere reproduction of scenes in actual life 
— however truthfully or skilfully drawn — could be of 
no possible use to the world unless it were inspired 
by an idea or a motive : this alone could supply the 
moral or intellectual force which indicates a spirit 
behind the mechanism. 

Myriads of people require myriads of books, and 
that all degrees of taste must be met, none will dis- 
pute. But the question of questions is — How ? Are 
all works of fiction, for instance, to be accepted, all to 
be given to the minds awaiting them, all to be con- 
sidered useful in their places ? A casual glance at 
the new lists daily paraded before our eyes — not to 
speak of those already in circulation — fills us with a 
sense of utter nothingness as regards our acquaintance 
with " light" literature. Nevertheless, after the first 
feeling of discouragement has subsided, reason sug- 
gests that a few specimens carefully examined may, 
possibly, give us correct ideas of the class to which 
they belong. Just as an assemblage of people awakens 
in us keen speculation and warm sympathy, although 
well aware that only a handful can ever stand to us in 
the light of friends or instructors, — so an assemblage 
of novels stirs in us many thoughts and feelings. For, 
if only a few of them can interest or influence us indi- 



ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. 



349 



vidually, we know that all the others have an equal 
influence over other minds, and therefore ought not 
to be carelessly regarded. Each new novel that ap- 
pears possesses a certain amount of influence — good or 
bad — and consequently challenges criticism. If it be 
the work of a distinguished man or woman, there is 
an acknowledged claim of courtesy in addition to the 
literary one; although the former should not influence 
our judgment as to worth. Viewing it as a work of 
art, we are privileged to drop ceremony, forget the 
eminent position of the author, and discuss his actual 
merit with the same candor as if it pertained to a 
novice. 

Genuine criticism may well be supposed too much 
engrossed with principles to attack individuals, whether 
famous or obscure, but their works, whatever their na- 
ture, are public property, open to inspection and discus- 
sion. The object brought under the lens of the intellect 
is regarded not as an accidental growth, but as a type 
of many more of the same form and attributes. No 
man or woman can remain neutral in a question involv- 
ing vital principles which govern taste and culture : 
and until criticism becomes elevated to its proper 
place in human affairs, crude and deleterious articles 
will continue to be imposed upon the multitude. 

Is criticism, then, a thing intrinsically good, to be 
sought after and valued ? or, is it the outgrowth of an 
artificial state of society, a thing to be dreaded and 
avoided? Surely it is worth attention, this subject 
upon which people have such strangely indefinite ideas 
that they zealously applaud or condemn upon no better 
ground than like or dislike, popular opinion or self- 
mistrust. Rightly understood, is it not a judgment 



35o 



ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. 



upon a piece of work, an action, or a principle, one 
intended to incite us to admiration and commendation, 
or the reverse? And whether this judgment laud or 
censure, is not its ultimate object to persuade others to 
entertain the same opinion? Such an influence, there- 
fore, permeating, as it must, every phase of ethics and 
esthetics, elevating or lowering public sentiment and 
taste, should be intrusted only to character of the 
staunchest kind. 

Nature, it is said, stamps those whom she deems 
fitly endowed for certain departments of science or art: 
granting this, willingly, it must likewise be maintained 
that cultivation eventually decides whether those en- 
dowments are to become available. Thus a critic is 
heeded not only because of his naturally keen eye or 
clear intellect, but also because those attributes have 
been carefully trained and diligently used : when we 
reverence our leader, we are always glad to obey. 

If criticism be genuine and reliable, it must be un- 
prejudiced by either friendship or enmity, ready to 
bring its entire force of learning, penetration, and con- 
science to the examination of its subject. Swayed by 
no motive of depreciation or self-aggrandizement, it 
discusses and analyzes with unwearied patience until 
its end has been attained ; and whatever the ultimate 
conclusion, expunges from it every semblance of bitter- 
ness. Looking thus at the qualifications demanded 
by worthy criticism, we are not surprised at the small 
number meriting its honors: indeed, rarely do we find 
one whose culture and judgment entitle him to full 
trust, one who, unbiassed by personal feeling, is anx- 
ious simply to indicate to others where they can find the 
pure gold of truth and how to avoid the dross of error. 



ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. 



351 



In addition to virility of reason, there must be 
special knowledge of the subject criticised, discrimi- 
nation in the selection of specimens, and an idealism 
which enables the critic to conceive of the perfection 
he wishes to point out or elicit. 

Bulwer tells us that reflection in one's own chamber 
and action in the world are the best critics. With 
them we can dispense with other teachers; without 
them all teachers are in vain. Nothing truer, if ap- 
plied to people who have already learned the art of 
reflection, — how to gather up all the scattered frag- 
ments of self- consciousness and observation, weld 
them skilfully and harden the mass into a whole by 
the action of reason. 

But in view of the numbers who experience a heavi- 
ness of spirit at the bare mention of the word reflection, 
and who gladly avail themselves of any other mind 
which chances to be at hand for the settling of their 
opinions and tastes, it must be strictly urged that 
critics are no less essential in a community than 
writers. 

If ideas and principles are to be taken at second 
hand, is it not just to provide the soundest and whole- 
somest kind for the purchasers ? Especially is it a 
simple form of humane feeling to desire that honest 
and laborious people should be helped, not hindered, 
in the performance of their respective duties. Now, 
before even the plainest of these duties can receive 
fitting attention, the individual mind must have some 
knowledge of the world of people about him, as well 
as of his relative position towards those people. Not 
only should the rich have a just appreciation of the 
condition of the poor, of their labor, virtues, and vices; 



352 ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM, 

but the poor, too, should be informed as to the con- 
dition of their richer neighbors, how they work or idle, 
progress or degenerate, enjoy or suffer. In either case, 
an erroneous statement of facts must prove highly 
detrimental : so that the books purporting to give 
views of society should be closely scanned and criti- 
cised before they are scattered broadcast over the 
country. To know what a people craves, we must 
glance not at the select few, but at the miscellaneous 
crowd. 

Which are the books most hungrily devoured by 
the youth of our modern civilization? 

Works of fiction, is the prompt answer. And the 
appetite being there, is it not the plain duty of ma- 
turity — that which has been tempered by experience 
and reflection — to provide suitable food for its gratifi- 
cation? However different the idiosyncrasies of this 
appetite, its cravings, in the main, are alike. Romance, 
sentiment, passion, adventure, — these are the subjects 
that attract the reader. Nor can these, if judiciously 
prepared and temperately partaken of, injure his con- 
stitution; but when given in ignorant good-nature 
without consideration as to fitness of time, or age, or 
selection, food loses its health-giving properties and 
weakens instead of increasing vitality. 

As children, we know nothing but our wishes, our 
sensations, and our satisfaction in their gratification ; 
of the things we fike we take whatever we can find, 
asking neither the name nor the quality of the giver, 
least of all troubling ourselves about his honesty or 
breadth of mental culture. To obtain what we desire 
gives us trouble enough; beyond this we do not go. 
If possessed of but average imagination we find it 



ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. 353 

extremely difficult to disbelieve in fairies, ghosts, 
giants, and sorcerers. Why then should we presume 
to doubt what stories and novels tell us of society, of 
principles, of passions, of motives ? And we do not 
doubt them, but absorb them into our mental being 
with all that intensity of credulousness which makes 
them in due time a part of ourselves. And this credu- 
lousness is not a special attribute of childhood, for 
there are many who in a mental sense are always 
children. 

If a man be so immersed in business that he finds 
no time for thinking of principles or passions pertain- 
ing to human character, in what respect does he differ 
from the child who is likewise ignorant of the art of 
thinking ? Or, if a woman be so enervated by frivolity 
that her reasoning faculties become incapable of action, 
her judgment in any matter of importance is of no more 
value than a child's. Evidently, then, adults no less 
frequently than children need counsel and guidance; 
and far from resenting these aids, they seek them, both 
from people and from books. 

Many who would not scruple to question any verbal 
statement would unhesitatingly accept whatever ab- 
surdity a book tells them. Easy to conceive, then, 
what a powerful instrument the novel has become in 
the planting of opinions and sentiments in human 
soil ; and although its working is less apparent than 
that of the professed teacher, it is infinitely more de- 
cisive in its effects. Fiction, when good, acts upon 
a susceptible mind like a stimulant at once delicious 
and beneficial., — the last because it takes the indi- 
vidual out of himself and makes daily labor 'endurable 
through the possibilities it discloses. Fiction, when 

31 



354 ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. 

bad, inculcates false ideas of life, inspires discontent 
with surroundings, and impairs the native vigor of 
mind and heart. 

The opinion held by many people that the tendency 
of fiction is to lessen the usefulness of the individual 
in practical life cannot be maintained if subjected to 
reason. 

This test proves that fiction — of the right kind, 
and judiciously used — is quite as essential to perfect 
the development of the intellect as history, logic, or 
science; that its direct effect is to modify prejudices, 
soften asperities, and counteract in numberless ways 
the anti-poetic ideas and tastes which make life so 
wearisome a burden to the mass of mankind. There 
are many men and women who are full of poetic 
feeling, but who do not know it by this name. They 
know, however, that they suffer daily and hourly 
from the rude manners and gross tastes of those^ 
around them, and that whenever they venture to ex- 
press such a thought they are bitterly reproached for 
their "over-sensitiveness" and "fastidiousness." Must 
it not be a great solace to such souls to learn through 
the pages of fiction — which might be defined as a 
poetic mode of portraying facts — that many men and 
women exist who are just as refined in feeling and as 
considerate in manner as imagination depicts them ? 

Writing upon Fiction and Matter of Fact, Leigh 
Hunt remarks: "A passion for these two things is 
supposed to be incompatible. It is certainly not; and 
the supposition is founded on an ignorance of the 
nature of the human mind and the very sympathies 
of the two strangers. Mathematical truth is not the 
only truth in the world. An unpoetical logician is 



ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. 



355 



not the only philosopher. . . . The mathematician, 
the schoolman, the wit, the statesman, and the soldier, 
may all be blind to the merits of poetry, and of one 
another; but the poet, by the privileges which he 
possesses of recognizing every species of truth, is 
aware of the merits of mathematics, of learning, of 
wit, of politics, and of generalship. He is great in 
his own art, and he is great in his appreciation of that 
of others. And this is most remarkable in proportion 
as he is a poetical poet — a high lover of fiction. ... I 
can pass with as much pleasure as ever from the read- 
ing of one of Hume's Essays to that of the Arabian 
Nights, and vice versa ; and I think, the longer I live, 
the closer, if possible, will the union grow. The 
roads are found to approach nearer, in proportion as 
we advance upon either ; and they both terminate in 
the same prospect. . . . Matter of fact is our percep- 
tion of the grosser and more external shapes of truth; 
fiction represents the residuum and the mystery. To 
love matter of fact is to have a lively sense of the 
visible and immediate; to love fiction is to have as 
lively a sense of the possible and the remote. Now 
these two senses, if they exist at all, are of necessity 
as real, the one as the other. The only proof of either 
is in our perception. To a blind man, the most visible 
colors no more exist, than the hues of a fairy tale to 
a man destitute of fancy. To a man of fancy, who 
sheds tears over a tale, the chair in which he sits 
has no truer existence in its way, than the story that 
moves him. His being touched is his proof in both 
instances." This union between romance and reality 
to which Hunt refers begets those powers of assimi- 
lation, appreciation, and tolerance which, broadly ap- 



356 



ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. 



plied, render the individual the happiest of his kind. 
The man who sees reality only is perpetually fretted 
and disturbed at seeing people around him idling, 
dreaming, speculating, "wasting their lives," as he 
thinks. From his point of observation, nothing is 
good or desirable unless it have a direct, practical, 
utilitarian application. Under this impression he 
naturally spends much of his life in protesting 
against dreamers, visionaries, romanticists, and meta- 
physicians ; and when not directly opposing them he 
is rendered morose and miserable by what to him 
appear instances of egregious human folly. Believing 
what he can see, touch, and handle, denying all else, 
he grows into a bigotry which in its aggravated forms 
makes the inquisitor, the pedant, the. dogmatist, the 
tyrant, and in its least offensive shape makes the 
formal, precise, stern, unsympathetic human animal, 
whom, in ordinary phrase, everybody "respects," but 
nobody loves. 

He who sees romance only is liable to underrate all 
useful projects and patient labor, and develop into a 
sentimentalism which is continually shocked by the 
callousness and want of spirituality in mankind, 
although doing nothing towards modifying the defect 
he deplores. In its most exaggerated phase, roman- 
ticism is the progenitor of those wildly-improbable 
fictions which excite ridicule in intelligent minds, and 
in the masses bring about strong reactions towards 
materialism. 

In brief, neither romance nor reality — taken singly 
— can be deemed salutary for mankind: only when 
united can they create those beautiful characteristics 
called charitableness, appreciation, and harmony. 



ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. 



357 



To the mind which discerns romance in the daily 
lives of men and women nothing can be common, 
prosaic, or uninteresting, but even the most trivial 
acts, words, and events are colored with delicate 
shades of sentiment or made forcible by the character 
perceived behind them. Such a mind finds an abso- 
lute and ever-increasing delight in studying humanity, 
and experiences regret and depression of spirits only 
from the consciousness of limitation in the absorption 
of its knowledge. When even the most insignificant 
or worst specimen of mankind yields materials for 
thought, sympathy, and speculation, the accumulation 
which must ensue from the observation of distin- 
guished and noble characters can easily be imagined. 

He who has a due conception of romance and re- 
ality — those two ingredients of life which give it zest 
and intensity — and feels within himself the desire to 
put that conception into intelligible form, will do well 
to remember the advice of Pope: 

First follow Nature, and your judgment frame 
By her just standard, which is still the same ; 
Unerring Nature, still divinely bright, 
One clear, unchanged, and universal light, 
Life, force, and beauty must to all impart, 
At once the source, and end, and test of art. 



THE END. 



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